


On a Wing and a Prayer

by AlyKat



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV), The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Also has a bit of past Clint Barton/Bobbi Morse, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Human, Alternate Universe - No Powers, Alternate Universe - World War II, Angst with a Happy Ending, Before we found out Ward was evil, Creative License, Eventual Happy Ending, Fic was started during the first season of AOS, Fighter Pilots, Grant Ward is not evil in this, I did quite a bit of research, I didn't want to change that, I may have fiddled with history a bit, M/M, War time typical violence, World War II, and i regret nothing, but I still tweaked history to do what I wanted, or a lot depending on how you look at it, so I ran with my original plans, to make him a poop with knives sticking out of it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-30
Updated: 2015-10-30
Packaged: 2018-04-27 02:19:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 19
Words: 101,970
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5029906
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AlyKat/pseuds/AlyKat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"On a wing and a prayer: In poor condition, but just managing to get the job done." </p><p>In general, the pilots of the 187th Airborne Defense Squadron were no strangers to this saying; for the hot shot new pilot assigned to their squadron however, it was more than just a witty turn of phrase, it was a way of life.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This fic would not be what it is today without my wonderful betas! LittleGirlLost, florahart, and intersellerdiamonddust. Thank you, thank you, from the bottom of my heart, thank you! 
> 
> General Disclaimer: These babies are not mine, they belong to Marvel and their appropriate creators. I'm just playing in the Marvel toy box and plan to put them back once I've had my way with them.
> 
> So now, without further ado, enjoy the fic!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Big huge fantastic thank you to [cassandrasfisher](http://archiveofourown.org/users/cassandrasfisher/pseuds/cassandrasfisher) for the BEAUTIFUL chapter headers, and fic banner! Also, you should definitely go check out the other wonderful graphics she made for the fic! :D
> 
> And one last quick note, just as a sort of reference. I tweaked everyone's ages a bit. Due the the era in which the fic takes place, the vast majority of the Avengers wouldn't have been eligible for service if I left them as their actual ages (they would have been aged out). So, here are the ages of the main players: Maj. Phillip James Coulson -- 32; 2nd Lt. Clinton Francis Barton -- 25; 1st Lt. Anthony "Tony" Carbonell -- 26; 2nd Lt. Robert Bruce Banner -- 27; Cpt. Steven Grant Rogers -- 22; Cpt. James Buchanan Barnes -- 24; 1st Lt. Grant Douglas Ward -- 23; Leopold Fitz -- 20

* * *

 

 

Casablanca

December 1942

Clint stood at full attention, staring straight out in front of him as the Colonel continued to fume and circle around him like a fat, hungry vulture. Come to think of it, Clint was pretty sure that’s exactly what this Colonel reminded him of. A vulture. A body too round to really be considered regulation weight, neck too skinny and his nose long, pointed and crooked. To anyone else, he'd be an intimidating man with beady eyes and tufts of black hair standing up every which way. Once the image of him popped into Clint’s head, feathers ruffling and wings flapping as he squawked about rules and regulations, it was near impossible for Clint to keep his laughter in.

“Is there something _funny_ , Sergeant Barton?” the Vulture--Clint didn’t remember his actual name to save his life--fumed as he came to stand nose-to-nose with him.

Clint coughed, trying to keep his laughter back, and then shook his head. “No, sir. Nothin’ funny at all.”

“I received a memo about you, Barton, when you were transferred to this base,” the Vulture admitted, as he turned and started back towards his desk where he picked up a sheet of paper and held it up for Clint to see. “It’s from your former CO. Do you know what it says?”

Clint’s shoulders slackened a bit as he shrugged, relaxing his stance a little. “Well, hopefully that I’m the best fighter around and that I’m devilishly handso--”

The Vulture cut him off with a glare and a sharp tone. “It says that he wishes to express his sincerest apologies for having to stick me with your disrespectful and arrogant ass. He also wanted to wish me luck with you, but not before telling me that if I was smart, I'd pass you on to the next poor sap before you managed to drag my squadron’s name through the mud like you did his.”

The words cut through the air, hitting exactly where they'd been aimed. If there was one thing Clint hated, it was being passed around like a hot potato. Of course, he wasn’t real fond of people making it sound like he was some kind of delinquent, either. He wasn’t, no matter what his service record might say.

Swallowing thickly, Clint wet his lips as he shrugged again. “Well, sir, to be completely honest with you, and with all due respect to Lieutenant Colonel Anderson, his squadron wasn’t that squeaky clean to begin with. Even before I got there. Sir.” The ‘Sir’ tacked onto the end purely as a deliberate afterthought.

Moving slowly around his desk and coming to a stop in front of Clint again, the Vulture’s eyes narrowed into thin, dark slits. In the Vulture's close and stuffy quarters, the stale stench of sweat and bad cigars seemed to be more powerful when he was less than a foot from Clint.

“You have exactly thirty minutes to pack your gear and get your ass off my base,” he growled in a low, harsh tone. His breath was hot and smelled of cheap cigars as he brought his meaty finger up to poke Clint hard in the chest. “You’re going to the ass end of England where you can’t get into trouble or cause any more damage. Dismissed.”

Without giving a word or even a salute, Clint turned and kept his eyes straight ahead as he marched out the door with a yellow mutt of a dog following right behind.

“And get rid of that dog!”

The corner of Clint's mouth quirked in an impish grin though he never broke stride. "What dog, sir?" He shot back over his shoulder just before the door closed behind him and he disappeared into the cool night.

* * *

 

England

May 1943

The late-afternoon sun was bright and warm as it glittered off the glass domes and metal wings of the beautiful P-51 Mustangs that were lined up in neat rows, when a C-47 transport plane came in for its landing. Standing no more than a few hundred yards from the flight line, Quonset huts were situated with their bounty of parachute packs and essential flight equipment, making it easier for pilots to reach their plane in a hurry. In the middle of camp, a wooden control tower could be seen, with a command center and briefing hut no more than a dozen feet from it. A few formerly-abandoned buildings served as supply storage and dining hall; and then, set back from everything, were the barracks, which consisted of a couple of small concrete structures for the bomber pilots and the higher-ranking officers, as well as a dozen or so smaller Quonsets for the fighter escort pilots to share--four men to each hut. And at the end of the barracks stood a small stone structure: the commanding officer's barracks.

In the air, high above the carefully-organized, yet makeshift, base, pilots ran training exercises with each other and played chase with the clouds as a way to break the boredom. Not that their little corner of England didn’t see a whole lot of action, just, well... they maybe saw just a little less than everywhere else. However, that didn't mean the 187th Airborne Defense Squadron was less important, because they were important.

At least, that’s what their commanding officer kept telling them.

And maybe one day they’d all believe it.

* * *

 

The door to the command center burst open and a young man came stumbling through, sweat plastering his blond-brown curls to his forehead while he gasped for breath. The eyes of the commanding officer and his aide turned and regarded him curiously; although, it really wasn’t all that uncommon for Fitz to come bursting in like the end of the world was upon them.

“Sirs,” he gasped, stumbling to a halt with his hand raised in a salute, his Scottish accent thick as he spoke, “sirs, a C-47 just landed, sirs.”

From behind a table covered in maps, Major Phil Coulson stared at Fitz as if he’d suddenly started speaking to him in a new language. “A Transport?” He stole a glance to the man beside him. “We aren't expecting anything, are we?"

“Could finally be our supplies, sir,” Lieutenant Ward answered with a shrug. Grant Ward stood a good six feet tall and was, by all rights, what a lot of people would consider _tall, dark and handsome_. He wasn’t at all the second-ranking officer in command, but he was Phil’s aide and generally ran the camp more than Phil himself did most days. Truthfully, Ward should have been promoted to Captain a long time ago; Phil really needed to get that paperwork mailed off soon.

Fitz perked and grinned, his excitement practically radiating off his body. “And two new personnel! I saw ‘em come off the plane with their bags.”

Phil frowned, yet nodded as he set his pencil down and stepped around the table, grabbing his crusher along the way. Once he had it positioned on his head just so, he followed behind his young honorary crewman as he bolted out the door. It was only when Fitz was gone that Phil allowed a small smile to cross his face.

“Your puppy should sleep well tonight,” he murmured, leaning in towards the slightly taller man walking alongside him.

Ward kept his eyes trained straight ahead, and his face as blank as he could muster. “Not my puppy, sir.”

“He followed you home from Nottingham, Ward.” Phil answered back. Somehow, he managed to keep the smirk off his face, though his eyes danced with amusement.

No one was really sure how or why Leopold Fitz had followed Ward back to base a year ago, but the little curly-haired Scotsman had quickly become an honorary crewmember. He was a wizard with mechanics and figuring out problems that no one else could answer when it came to planes. Phil was pretty sure he’d heard once that Fitz had been going to university in Nottingham for engineering, but had dropped out to try and join the Army when he came of age. Why he was turned away, Phil didn’t know, but whatever the reason had been, he was glad that Fitz had found a place with the 187th.

With a heavy sigh, Ward slumped his shoulders as he shook his head. “Don’t have to keep reminding me.”

Laughing softly, Phil held his head high as he strolled across the grassy field towards the flight line, where crewmen were already unloading provisions and mail from the cargo hold while two unfamiliar men stood in the shade of the C-47's long shadow, laughing and passing a cigarette back and forth between them. Their duffels sat at their feet, and a bit of bright red fabric -- that might have had a palm tree on it, though Phil couldn’t tell for sure -- stuck out from one of the bags, and both men were completely oblivious to what was going on around them.

“Wait, wait...lemme get this straight. You got your letter and thought you could legitimately run to Canada? From Iowa? In the dead of winter?”

“Hey! Don’t laugh! I coulda made it! Ya know, if that damned snowstorm hadn’t sprung up and ‘bout near froze me solid! Hell, I was so cold, I practically jumped into that MP’s arms when they finally caught me.”

Phil’s feet shuffled to a stop as he heard the two men laughing about a near escape. A would-be draft dodger. Perfect. Just what he didn’t need. Next to him, Lieutenant Ward cleared his throat in order to catch their attention, causing the pair to draw their eyes towards them. One of the men, with dark brown eyes, took a moment to size them up as he took a long drag from the shared cigarette.

He wasn’t a pilot, Phil could tell that straight off. While there was a wild, devil-may-care glint in his eyes, he didn't hold himself the way a pilot would.

“Huh. Look Francine, the Welcome Wagon has arrived," he quipped, passing the cigarette off to his companion, who was choking on his own laughter.

Blue-green eyes that rivaled the Aegean Sea in color lifted to gaze out from under long, dark lashes, locking solely with Phil's. There seemed to be an unspoken challenge hidden within their depths, silently daring Phil.  Daring him to do what? Who knew. Maybe daring him to make an attempt at keeping this new pilot in his squadron, or maybe even daring him to throw his rank around and order them to attention. Neither were things Phil was planning to do; instead, he kept his face pleasantly blank and stood just a little bit taller.

“Afternoon, gentlemen,” he greeted them with a nod, standing at ease while Ward shifted awkwardly beside him. “Just passing through?”

The first one snorted under his breath as he pretended to stand at attention, clearly mocking the stiff way Ward was standing. His dark hair was slicked back off his forehead and he had at least three days worth of stubble growing around his mouth. “No, sir. In fact, my distinguished colleague and I were thinking we’d like to settle down here. He’ll fly planes, I’ll fix 'em and we’ll raise ourselves a nice little family.”

Phil stared at him for a moment, unfazed, before glancing back at the other man standing in front of Phil--the one with the magic-colored eyes. Like his friend, he had a similar unkempt appearance with his dirty blonde hair hanging loose over his forehead. “What’re your names, soldiers?”

“Second Lieutenant Anthony Carbonell. You Crash ‘Em, I Patch ‘Em.” he replied, giving a sloppy and half-assed salute before bringing his cigarette back to his lips for another drag. “People usually just call me Tony. I’m your new mechanic.”

“Put the cigarette out, Lieutenant Carbonell,” Phil’s voice never so much as swayed in pitch or tone, and yet he made it very clear that this smart-ass Lieutenant would be in serious trouble if he didn’t do as he was told. And if his tone didn't, then the sharp way Phil's eyes snapped to meet and hold his gaze would.

Standing stock-still for a moment, Tony didn't so much as blink before he slowly dropped what was left of the cigarette on the ground and stomped it out with his boot heel while Phil turned his attention back to the second man. He was nearly the same height as Tony, yet a bit more compact, and the way he stared back at Phil made it clear to him that this one might have an attitude problem. Or at the very least, would cause Phil a world of headaches.

“And you?”

“First Lieutenant Clint Barton. Like the man said, I fly ‘em.”

Beside Phil, Ward blinked and then finally spoke up. “Barton? We’re expecting a Barton, but...not for another few days, and I thought they said he was a Sergeant.”

Clint shrugged and shook his head, reaching up to wiggle his shirt collar, letting the single silver bar on each side glint in the sunlight. “Well, they were wrong, Slick. Lieutenant Barton, at your service.”

“I took the call myself,” Ward replied sharply. “They said you were a Sergeant.”

“Look, you just said you _thought_ they said that’s what I was. You can’t say something like that and then turn around and be certain of it. Makes people not trust you.”

The corner of Phil’s mouth did not twitch, especially not while Ward stood there gaping like a fish out of water. Oh yes, this was the Barton they had been warned about, and he was definitely going to be trouble. And probably in more ways than one. While his flight record, for the most part, was highly impressive, his disciplinary record was a mile long and growing every few days. Phil had Barton’s official records sitting on his desk so he knew for a fact that Clint Barton was a Sergeant, and about one smart-assed remark away from being busted back down to Corporal and assigned to desk duty in Washington state. Hell, that’s if he was lucky. Otherwise, there was a nice, cold cell waiting for him at Leavenworth.

Prior to this moment, Phil wouldn't have said that his squadron was the Last Stop Before the Boot; but as he stood here gazing upon his newest recruits, he came to realize that he had been saddled with one of the largest groups of misfits and troublemakers the United States Army Air Force had ever seen. And just as he started to open his mouth and comment on that fact, he was cut off by an angry growl coming from within the plane, quickly followed by a series of sharp barks, and then a very human holler of surprise before an airman came tumbling down the steps.

“Uh, Li-Lieutenant? Is...that box you loaded up? Is it--” the airman’s question trailed off as a yellow mutt with only one eye leapt from the open door and tumbled to a stop beside Clint, its tail thumping happily in the dirt.

Leaning around Clint, Tony's eyebrows rose and his head tilted as the dog settled itself on Clint's foot, looking damn near like it was sitting at attention and gazing up at Phil with its one good eye. Tony turned his head and looked back at Clint, nudging his new friend in the side with his elbow. “Is that what was in that box? I was wondering why you slid your sandwich in there. Hell, I thought it was a dame.”

Clint’s face scrunched in the most comical and disbelieving way as he shook his head. “You kidding me? I wouldn’t’a slipped my sandwich in there if it’d been a dame. She shoulda brought her own damn smuggling food.”

Phil resisted the urge to reach up and pinch the bridge of his nose as he looked between the dog and Clint. Over the years, he had worked with men like Clint before, and he had learned that the best way to keep them mostly out of trouble was to cut them a little bit of slack, sometimes. It was a way to earn their respect as someone who was more than just a hard-nosed, by-the-books Army stooge.

“Is that your dog, Lieutenant?”

Clint lifted his head and leveled another challenging look Phil's way, shrugging.  “No, Sir. Don’t know who he belongs to. Damn thing just won’t stop following me around.”

While Phil seemed thoroughly amused by the idea that someone was actually being followed around by a lost dog, Ward merely tilted his head and appeared to be just a bit more apprehensive about the excuse;  but then again, Ward had always been a little bit of a stick-in-the-mud. Or so Phil thought.

“It’s against regulations to have a dog--”

“Really?” Clint’s voice was sharp as he cut Ward off and glared at him, his hand curling possessively into the dog's short fur. “You wanna tell that to Stubby? Y’know, that dog that served in the last war and was put on the cover of Parade magazine? I saw the pictures. Dog was a damn hero.”

Even while Ward's jaw worked at forming words, Clint continued on with his defensive rant. “I hear there’s a dog serving right now down in North Africa. You gonna tell him it’s against regulations?”

Clearly amused, Phil shook his head and then reached out, putting a hand on Ward's shoulder. “There’s nothing against having a dog on base, Lieutenant Ward. I think it'll be all right if Lieutenant Barton’s friend wants to stay as our division’s mascot. Now, why don’t you show these men to their bunks?” He offered before turning his attention back to the pair, giving them a nod. “Mess is at 1930. We have a briefing at 2015, I expect to find you both there.”

Then he turned, leaving the three Lieutenants and the dog behind, he had other things to worry about at the moment.

Clint watched as his new Commanding Officer started back towards the stone building he’d come from. He hadn’t caught the man’s name, wasn’t even sure if it’d even been said, but he was amazed that neither he nor Tony had been given a hard time. Neither of them were what most would consider to be shining examples of wholesome all-American men, which was why they had been shuffled all over the world over the course of the last few months. Tony had been sent up from the Pacific Theater as punishment for being caught one too many times enjoying the company of the friendly natives and their tropical home, while Clint had been bounced from one backend division to another before finally winding up here.

Grabbing his bag, Clint whistled for the dog to come when Ward waved them along, only half listening while Ward spoke.

“Scheduled meals are at 0630, 1230 and 1930. If you miss a scheduled meal because of a mission, the mess staff will be informed and will keep a little extra on hand for when you return.”

After turning a corner and walking between two barracks, Clint and Tony could see the other men milling about--some playing catch while others were laying out on the soft, fresh grass--as Ward led them towards a hut at the end of the line. It was as they approached their new barracks that a man came tumbling out the door with his nose buried in a book. That, at least, got Ward to stop talking for a second.

“Lieutenant Banner,” he called, catching the man’s attention and causing him to stop.

Banner lowered his book and blinked at them, his dark curls falling in front of his equally dark eyes. From where Clint stood, he looked like a man preparing for the worst while still hoping for the best, like he was expecting to get his ears boxed at any moment. It was a look Clint knew all too well because he understand that nagging, constant fear.

“Yes?”

“These are your new temporary bunkmates, Barton and Carbonell.” Ward motioned to Clint and Tony respectively.

Something akin to mild panic seemed to flash quickly across Banner’s face before he nodded and gave a decent impression of a smile at least. “Oh, hello. Nice to meet you.”

Though he was sure his seemed mostly genuine, Clint returned Banner's smile and nodded in silent greeting. Beside him, Tony could only blink and gape, apparently suddenly tongue-tied. Keeping his eyes on Banner, Clint watched as Banner turned his gaze on Tony. They stared at each other for a second until red rushed up Banner’s cheeks and he ducked his head back into his book, hurrying on his way again.

“Banner’ll be your wingman, Barton. He--”

“Is there a chaplain around?” Tony asked suddenly, staring off in the direction Banner had gone. Given that his question was completely out of the blue, he managed to leave Ward yet again blinking in confusion.

“Uh, yes. Father McGill. Why?”

"Because oh the sins I am about to commit," he replied, shoving his duffle into Clint's arms without looking. "Excuse me."

Clint burst out laughing as he watched Tony tear off down the row of huts in an attempt to catch up with Banner. During the few short days he had known Tony, Clint had learned that he could be as scatterbrained as a bird and seemed to follow a motto of ‘I want it, I get it.’

Shifting the abandoned duffle to his other hand, Clint hoisted his own onto his shoulder again and looked towards Ward expectedly. “I don’t need a wingman, by the way,” Clint finally said, brushing past him to enter the hut.

The bunk wasn't very big, just large enough to hold four cots, two tables, and a wood burning stove right in the center of the room. The cot in the far left corner had clearly already been claimed by Banner, given its military corners, while still managing to be surrounded by the books and papers scattered across almost every flat surface. Huffing a half-laugh, Clint tossed Tony's bag onto the cot opposite Banner's before turning and dropping his own on the empty cot just inside the door.

Though Clint was aware of Ward's presence inside the hut, he didn't so much as blink when his dog jumped onto the last remaining cot and made himself at home.

“What do you mean, you don’t need a wingman? You’re a pilot, right? All the pilots are assigned a wingman.”

Turning, Clint leveled him with a bored stare. “Are _you_ a pilot, Lieutenant Ward?”

“No,” Ward answered after a brief pause. “I’m flight control and communications specialist.”

“Okay then. What happened to Banner’s wingman if he doesn’t have one already?”

A cloud seemed to pass over Ward's face, forcing him to look away for just a moment before finally answering. “Sergeant Pym was shot down four weeks ago during our last raid. You and Carbonell are the first new men to come into our division in over a year.”

With a shrug, Clint rolled his mattress and blanket down.  “Well, find someone else to be his winger, ‘cuz I don’t need one. Not gonna be here long enough for it to matter anyway.”

“You seem pretty sure about that.”

“Slick,” Clint finally looked up, meeting Ward’s bewildered gaze evenly. “In the past seven months, I’ve been transferred to five different squadrons. So believe me, I know when I’m not gonna be around for long.”

Turning away, Clint whistled for his dog again as he brushed passed Ward and stepped outside, leaving the other man standing alone in the dimly-lit barrack.

 


	2. Chapter 2

 

Clint wandered the base for a time, having chosen to forgo supper in the dining hall after taking a peek inside and deciding whatever the mystery meat was just wasn't worth it. Instead, he opted to explore more of his new home away from home. Weaving his way between the planes lined up for the night, Clint ran his hand across their cool, smooth silver wings looking to see which pilot's name went with the little black crosses that had been painted under the cockpit. Not an easy task in the faded light of dusk.

There was a Sergeant Parker with two Nazi kills under his belt; Lieutenant Cleese had four identified on his plane; Lieutenant Frank had five kills; and there were five crosses on the plane belonging to a Lieutenant Shade.

Then there was Banner’s plane.

Clint stopped and stared at Banner’s for a good long while, his mouth hanging slack in disbelief. In addition to four black crosses, there were five American flags painted carefully underneath his cockpit. A brief wash of panic and dread ran through him. Banner had downed more American planes in friendly fire than he had enemies, and now they were expecting him to be Banner's wingman?

Maybe it was his punishment for being such a fuck up all the time? Maybe someone, somewhere, thought if they paired him with this Banner guy that they’d get lucky and he’d be shot down by his own wingman and killed. _Jesus!_ What if that’s what happened to Pym?

The sound of rustling from behind finally brought Clint's attention around, causing him to straighten a bit as the Major from before stepped up beside him. The guy wasn't anything fantastic to look at, let alone write home about, at least from what Clint could tell. He was about Clint's height with a slight build and held himself like a man who was used to people listening him. Though, there was something about him that told Clint that there was probably more to this man than meets the eye.

He smiled at Clint before pointing towards Banner’s plane. “Those flags were painted on as sort of a joke, so you don’t have to worry about anything. Bruce hasn’t shot down any of our own planes in probably eight months.”

“Yeah, that’s not real reassuring,” Clint mumbled, gulping slightly at the thought that a guy like that was even allowed up in the air to begin with.

When the Major huffed a soft laugh and shook his head, Clint found himself turning to look at him again.

“If you’re that worried about it,” he started, “Lieutenant Rand has been looking for more fly time. I can rearrange things, so he flies with Banner and we’ll find someone else to be your wingman.” Then after a beat, he turned to face Clint fully. “I’m Major Phil Coulson, by the way, and I’m in charge of this unit.”

Standing a bit straighter, Clint snapped off a half-assed salute. “S’all the same to you, Major, I’d rather fly orphan, cuz I’ve never needed a wingman before.”

“Given your record, _former-Sergeant_ ,” Coulson drawled, giving Clint a pointed look, “I’d say that’s because you’ve never stayed in one place long enough to need one.”

The smirk on Coulson’s face and the tease to his voice had Clint pausing, dumbfounded, for a moment. He figured he’d be found out, sooner or later, he just kind of hoped it took longer than a couple hours before they realized he’d forged orders and won some poor sap’s Lieutenant bars right off his collar in a poker game. As he tried to quickly work out a response, the color faded from his face and his mouth turned to cotton.

Coulson waved him off with a shake of his head and then turned, starting back across the concrete runway while Clint stood frozen in place for a moment longer before finally moving to follow.

“Aren’t you gonna, y’know, toss me in the brig or something? Demand I take the bars off and court-martial me?” He asked, breaking into a jog so he could walk side-by-side with Coulson. It was kind of amazing to see the corner of Coulson’s mouth twitch up just a bit at his question.

“This is wartime, Barton. Field promotions and mix-ups happen all the time. We have one man here who went from a Corporal to a 2nd Lieutenant, and then a Captain all in the course of a couple weeks because of a field promotion,” Coulson answered with a shrug of his shoulder as if it was nothing new to him.

Clint blinked twice and then turned to stare at his new commanding officer before looking back ahead of him. That certainly wasn’t what he’d been expecting to hear. Well, maybe about the Corporal who became a Captain; he’d been around long enough to see that kind of thing happen. What had Clint pausing was the fact that Coulson wasn’t going to cause him any trouble over the forged and stolen rank.

After all, ignoring something like that could get Coulson into a lot of trouble, possibly even cost him his rank... among other things.

The pair continued to walk through the lineup of fighters, Clint silent at Coulson’s side as they made their way towards a small wooden shack. Ahead of them, men in flight suits and partial uniforms wandered inside, a few even tossing a hello and salute to Coulson before disappearing. Of all the divisions and squadrons Clint had been shuffled around to since joining the Army Air Force  last year, the 187th certainly wasn’t like any of the others.

As they stepped to the doorway of the shack, Coulson turned to face Clint.

“We do things differently here, Barton,” he explained, though Clint tried not to acknowledge the gentle kindness that edged at Coulson’s words. “If you want me to toss you in the brig, or court-martial you and have you demoted or, better yet, sent back home to spend the rest of the war in an Army jail cell, I will. But I don’t think that’s what you want.”

Clint flexed his jaw, clenched it once before glancing away. No, that really wasn’t what he wanted.

“I don’t want to have to do that either. I’ve seen your records. You’re a good pilot. Quite frankly, we need more good pilots here. We may not see much action, but when we do, we need people who aren’t going to run away from a fight. Is that you?”

Blue-green eyes glanced out from under sinfully long lashes before Clint lifted his chin and squared his shoulders, giving a curt nod. “Yes, sir.”

Haloed by the dim, yellow glow of the hut’s interior light, Coulson stood for a long quiet moment, allowing Clint the chance to simply stare. Maybe the guy wasn’t anything to write home about looks-wise, but there was something about him that made Clint want to do a good job. For the first time in more years than he cared to remember, he wanted to be good enough to be kept in one place. Which was probably the most ridiculous thing in the world, honestly. Even if he did manage to not mess things up, it wouldn’t be long before he got pawned off to someone else. It’s just the way things worked for him. Always had been. Always would be.

Still...there was the building hope in the pit of his stomach that maybe, just maybe, this time it really would be different.

“Good,” Coulson finally nodded and stepped to the side, motioning to the already crowded room behind him. “Then come inside and listen to the briefing. We’ll get your plane figured out in the morning.”

Clint gave another nod before he ducked inside. The briefing hut wasn’t anything fancy; they never were. Benches and rickety wooden folding chairs were scattered into sloppy rows, leaving a narrow aisle up the middle and down either side for people to get in or out. At the front of the room, maps of the area and of Western Europe filled the entire wall space and a chalkboard was set up in the corner. Lieutenant Ward was already standing next to it, looking stiff and awkward in front of the laughing men filling the hut.

With nowhere to sit, Clint slipped into the back corner to lean against the wall and watch. Tony sat two rows ahead of him, right beside Banner.

The air was filled with the haze of smoke from cigarettes being passed around, coupled with the smell of exhaust, engine oil, and wide-open skies. It was everything Clint had grown to love about being in the Army Air Force. To him, it was the smell of freedom.

“Evening, gentlemen,” Coulson greeted, his voice breaking through the pilots’ laughter and ribbing, drawing everyone’s attention back to the front of the room. And just like that, the hut was silent.

Clint was impressed. Maybe he wasn’t the only one who wanted to do right by Coulson.

He listened as Coulson and Ward took turns explaining the mission that a select few would be going on that night. It wasn’t anything overly difficult, just a simple reconnaissance mission. Captains Rogers and Barnes would be taking their Martin B-26 Marauder, with Sergeant Parker and Lieutenant Rand manning the guns and cameras, and flying over a reported Nazi weapons depot; Major Coulson would be leading a small group of fighters in a protection detail.

While the weapons depot was one of Hitler’s smaller stashes, any intel they managed to gather was sure to be of help to the allies. Especially as new ones kept popping up across the German countryside.

“Captain Rogers,” Coulson turned his attention to the small mountain of a man sitting towards the front of the room. “We’ll be flying over a known POW camp. Command would like us to get as many pictures of it as we can. They seem to think there could be another possible weapons cache near it.”

Captain Rogers sat up straighter and exchanged a glance with the slightly smaller man next to him. Clint could only assume it was Captain Barnes. A small murmur passed between them before Rogers nodded.

“Isn’t it against the Geneva Conventions to have a weapons cache near a POW camp?” Rogers asked, and oh if he didn’t just sound like the embodiment of the American Way. Clint hadn’t seen the Captain’s face yet, but he was willing to bet his stash of rationed chocolate bars that the guy even looked like a kicked Golden Retriever.

Clint watched as the corner of Coulson’s mouth twitched as he fought against it pulling into an amused not-smile. There was a fondness that he couldn’t keep out of his grey eyes, though. _Well damn_. Looked Coulson already had a favorite. Clint was going to have to work on changing that.

“These are the Nazis we’re talking about, Captain. If they have weapons near a POW camp, then what are the chances we’ll come in and bomb the hell out of it? Pretty damn slim. But,” his smirk couldn’t be held back anymore and Coulson paused to take a sip from a beat-up coffee cup that Ward had had waiting for him, “if we can get photos of it, then we can pass them along to the Underground, who’ll have a team move in and make sure it’s clear before they blow it up from within. Minimal casualties. And with any luck, they’ll all be Germans.”

A few laughs and cheers went up at that, but when it became obvious no one else was going to say anything else, Coulson gave a final nod. “Alright then. Let’s get to our planes and head out.”

Pushing himself away from the wall, Clint dropped his hands into his pockets and watched as the others rose from their seats and headed for the door.

“Oh, one last thing,” Coulson called out, his eyes coming to rest on Clint. “We’ve got a couple new guys just arrived. Lieutenant Clint Barton’s going to be flying with us, and Lieutenant Anthony Carbonell will be assisting Lieutenant Richards in repairs. Try to make ‘em feel welcome.”

All eyes seemed to turn to Clint and Tony who, surprisingly, seemed to shy away from the attention. Tony ducked his head slightly and only gave a quick look to those around him before clearing his throat and slipping out of the hut. It seemed odd to Clint, but, then again, it was possible the guy really didn’t crave and devour attention quite as much as he seemed like he would. Clint glanced around at the men still standing, who seemed to be sizing him up, and squared his shoulders a bit more in hopes of making himself a bit taller.  Being only five-foot-seven and surrounded by guys clearing six foot easily, Clint needed all the extra height he could get.

Besides, he was used to people watching him.

So with a devil-may-care smirk, Clint tipped his head in greeting and stuffed his hands in his pockets, rocking back and forth on his feet. “You fellas sure know how to make a guy feel all warm an’ fuzzy inside, don’t’cha’s?”

No one answered as they turned and left the hut; it was only when Captains Rogers and Barnes were left that Clint finally let his shoulders relax a bit. As much as he hated to admit it, he’d been right about Rogers--the guy was the personification of a Golden Retriever, and, even in a tan flight suit, it was obvious the guy was built like a Greek god, with broad shoulders that tapered down to a lithe waist. And how cruel was that? Clint had to admit, if it weren’t for the fact Barnes was standing close enough to be in the guy’s parachute pack, Clint would have maybe allowed himself to entertain the thought of hopping into the supply shed with the guy. But then again, Rogers had the look of the good all-American boy-next-door, complete with blond hair and blue eyes, who probably didn’t do things like that.

It was a good thing he was fighting for their side and not Hitler’s. Old Adolf would have been having wet dreams over Rogers’ perfection.

Captain Barnes, though--now there was a guy Clint was pretty certain he could have some fun with. Barnes stood relaxed but alert as Rogers talked to Coulson and Ward at the front of the hut. Dark eyes keeping watch while he puffed away at a cigarette. There was something about him that seemed to quietly denote him as a guy who would be game to throwing back a few beers, wouldn’t shy away from a fight if one came up, and maybe would even be up for a few rounds of poker.

Providing Clint could get him out of Rogers’ back pocket, that was.

With one last glance towards Coulson, Clint turned and slipped out into the cool dusk air. The sun had long since disappeared behind the trees, blanketing the airfield in a haze of grey. Above him, the sky had turned a fiery orange-pink as the last bit of light began to give way to darkness, giving just enough illumination for the crew to get to their planes and take off. The men who had been out goofing around earlier had either returned to their bunks, or possibly gone into town for some drinks and friendly company. Oh, how Clint envied them. Though, not as much as he envied the guys going up.

Standing at the edge of the flight line, Clint watched as the crews prepped the Mustangs and pulled their wheel chocks once the engines were roaring to life. One by one, the planes bounced and screamed down the runway, taking to the skies just in time to barely clear the tree line. Once they were up, the B-26 followed. The Marauder didn’t have a whole lot of space to take off and Clint found himself holding his breath once the nose gear lifted off the ground. They continued like that for another couple of heart-stopping seconds before Clint could hear the change in torque needed to get the plane up to the 110 RPMs needed to get them off the ground and clear of the trees in time. Leaves and branches swayed as the bottoms of the large rear wheels passed over them with only inches to spare.

Clint’s heart finally surged back to life after the silhouettes of the planes disappeared from sight. These guys were good, he’d give ‘em that, and Rogers sure as hell knew how to handle his bomber.

As the last of the pale light faded away, replaced instead with the spotty yellow of the lamps above doors and on the control tower, Clint took a deep breath. Head tilted back to stare up at the sky, he made a silent vow to himself: this time things would be different. This time he wouldn’t screw things up; he was going to behave himself and keep out of trouble. He was done being bounced around like a hot potato.

Come Hell or high water, Clint was determined to stay with this squadron. Of course, whether or not that would happen remained to be seen. After all, he thought the last unit he’d been assigned to was going to be the last time he got shoved out, but you deck one jackass officer and down one plane and suddenly out the door you go.

With a heavy sigh, Clint wandered back to his bunk to get himself settled in for the night.

* * *

It was nearly midnight when the hum of propellers rattled through the night. Clint lay stretched out on his cot, one arm under his head, the other buried in Lucky’s fur while the dog slept on the floor beside him. He stared at the ceiling, listening, counting. _One…two…three…four…one bomber_. Five planes went up and five planes came down.

Across the aisle to his right, Tony shifted in his own cot. “Bomber’s got a spitting engine,” He mumbled through the darkness, voice thick and rough with sleep. “Musta got chased back home.”

Clint turned his head to look across the aisle. Tony laid half curled up on himself, with his eyes peacefully closed, trying to look like he was asleep.

“Well, then I guess you’ve got something to play with tomorrow morning,” Clint answered back as he pushed himself up and out of bed. Dressed only in his white undershirt and olive green boxers, he shuffled for the door.

Behind him, blankets rustled. “Where you goin’?”

“Gotta go see a man about a dog.”

Tony huffed a half-laugh before rolling onto his other side. “Call if ya need a hand.”

Clint paused at the door and glanced back, an eyebrow quirked in amusement. “Brother, if I need a hand, you ain’t the one I’m gonna be callin’.”

Without another word, Clint slipped out the door and padded barefoot across the grass. The tiny white lights of the runway lit up the central area of camp and Clint listened as each engine sputtered and popped before quieting down to just the gentle whoosh-whirl of the props slowing to a stop. He stuck to the shadows as he made his way towards the flight line to watch. Not for any particular reason, he just felt like watching was all. What else was there to do in the middle of the night when you couldn’t sleep?

Clint watched as Banner wandered away from his plane first, shucking his parachute and gloves as he went. Well, at least their bunkmate returned in one piece, but Clint found himself wondering if maybe Banner had been the one who made the Marauder’s engine sputter like it was.

Clint shook that thought from his mind and watched as the others came into view. Rogers and Barnes, followed by two guys Clint figured must be Parker and Rand, though he wasn’t sure which one was which. Two other Mustang pilots Clint couldn’t remember the names of -- he thought one might be McCoy, maybe. He’d worry about figuring out names later. Finally, with the same stride and confidence he’d shown earlier that night, Coulson walked away from his plane and nodded to the lead engineer on duty. Nobody looked any worse for wear. Tired, though, definitely.

Coulson reached up and ran his hand down his face, trying to hide the yawn that threatened to split his face in two. He nearly ran right into Clint as he came around the corner, before Clint stepped to the side, hoping to hide further in the shadows. Startled at the sudden movement, Coulson drew up short and stared wide-eyed at Clint for a long moment.

“Barton?” He finally asked. His voice sounded gravelly, like he’d spent too long barking orders through his headset. And maybe he had, who knows?

Clint cleared his throat and stepped out into the small circle of light. “Sorry, sir. Didn’t mean to scare ya.”

Coulson gave a small cough of his own before he shook his head. “Barton, what are you doing out at this hour?”

“Just needed to find the latrine, sir,” okay, so that was a lie. “Heard the planes come in so I figured I’d hang around to watch for a couple minutes.” That was slightly more truthful. Half-truth, anyway.

“And lurk in the dark like The Shadow?”

Clint couldn’t fight the smirk that tugged at the corner of his mouth. So Coulson read _The Shadow_. That was useful information to know. At least maybe if he needed something, he could work some channels and maybe come up with a daily or two of the strip to bribe – no, not bribe. Soften Coulson up with? Yeah, soften him up. That sounded better.

“Who knows what evil lurks in the hearts of men,” Clint quoted smugly, “The Shadow knows!”

Maybe Coulson was just really tired, or maybe Clint had read things wrong already, but either way, the Major barely did more than offer a bland not-smile. Of course, his eyes were shadowed by his crusher, so Clint really couldn’t tell if Coulson was amused or not by his quote from the radio program.

“Latrine is in the other direction,” Coulson finally retorted as he started past Clint, on his way to his own quarters for the night. “Hurry up and try to get some shut-eye. 0600 comes around real fast around here.” There was a slight pause in his voice, but not in his step as he tossed a final parting phrase over his shoulder to Clint. “ _The Shadow knows_.”

With Coulson’s back to him, Clint allowed himself a wide grin. He still wasn’t going to get his hopes up completely, but yeah, he had the feeling he could really get used to this squadron. Especially if Coulson was going to keep treating him like an equal, not a subordinate.

Falling asleep once he was back in his bunk wasn’t nearly as hard as it’d been earlier that night. Even with Tony sitting up in his cot across the way, quietly yammering at Banner as the guy stripped down from his flight to get ready for bed. All Clint had to do was close his eyes and think about all the ways he could try to make sure Coulson decided to keep him around.

 

 


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Because all of my betas questioned me on it when it came up, yes, it really is supposed to say "duck tape". It's not a typo. I researched the history of Duct Tape and found this bit of handy information regarding its use during WWII: "The idea for what became duct tape came from Vesta Stoudt, an ordinance-factory worker and mother of two Navy sailors, who worried that problems with ammunition box seals would cost soldiers precious time in battle. She wrote to President Franklin D. Roosevelt in 1943 with the idea to seal the boxes with a fabric tape, which she had tested at her factory. The letter was forwarded to the War Production Board, who put Johnson & Johnson on the job. The Revolite division of Johnson & Johnson had made medical adhesive tapes from duck cloth from 1927 and a team headed by Revolite's Johnny Denoye and Johnson & Johnson's Bill Gross developed the new adhesive tape, designed to be ripped by hand, not cut with scissors.
> 
> Their new unnamed product was made of thin cotton duck tape coated in waterproof polyethylene (plastic) with a layer of rubber-based gray adhesive ("Polycoat") bonded to one side. It was easy to apply and remove, and was soon adapted to repair military equipment quickly, including vehicles and weapons. This tape, colored in army-standard matte olive drab, was nicknamed "duck tape" by the soldiers. Various theories have been put forward for the nickname, including the descendant relation to cotton duck fabric, the waterproof characteristics of a duck bird, and even the 1942 amphibious military vehicle DUKW which was pronounced "duck"." 
> 
> Just wanted to make that clear before someone commented telling me I'd spelled Duct Tape wrong. It wasn't until the 1950s that its name was changed from duck to duct. Like I said in the tags, I've done a lot of research for this fic. Even researching the history of duct tape.

* * *

 

The following morning saw Tony being hustled off to the makeshift workshop where Lieutenant Reed Richards was waiting to show him around and get him started working straight away, while Clint spent his morning stocking up on breakfast before Banner was to take him and Lucky on a small tour of their camp. It really wasn’t much of anything, but Clint was assured that there was a decent-sized town not too far away where most of the pilots went to relax and have a good time. And if they didn’t head to town, then they hung out in the Officers’ club playing darts or cards, while sipping on whatever hooch happened to find its way through the door. Banner, from what Clint gathered, wasn’t much of a drinker, but he was pretty fond of joining in on the poker games from time to time.

By lunchtime, Lieutenant Ward had found Clint and wrangled him away from the lunch line – an action that earned him a severe glare and silent vow of revenge – to take him off to the flight line. He stood a good six inches taller than Clint and had cheekbones that could probably cut glass. And if they couldn’t, his jawbone definitely could. There was something about him, though, that made Clint wonder if the guy had been born without a personality or sense of humor.

Standing with his arms folded across his perfectly crisp tan uniform shirt – and seriously, perfectly crisp! The guy probably ironed his BVDs, too – Ward nodded to the second-to-last plane in the lineup.

“That one’s yours,” he made it sound like it was the crown jewel of India, but when Clint laid eyes on the Mustang, he wanted to cry.

He stared at it for a second before looking back at Ward, then back to the plane. “You’re raggin’ me, right? _That’s mine_?” Clint demanded as he looked up – and up and up – at Ward, pointing off towards the plane. “This is some kinda joke, right? ‘Prank the new guy’ kinda thing?”

“No, that’s your plane. It’s the only one available right now,” Ward shook his head, not the least bit concerned.

Well, Clint sure as hell was.

“That thing is falling apart!” He exclaimed, moving to give the plane a once-over. “There’s no way this thing can still fly! Look at it! The tail wheel is flat and cracked. There’s more holes in the body than there is in Swiss cheese.” Clint ducked under the left wing and came up on the other side, eyes wide and mouth hanging open as he pointed to the long strips of olive drab that covered one area just above the wing. “That is _duck tape_! This plane is literally being held together with _duck tape_!”

Ward leaned back on his heels, chin tipped up just slightly and his shoulders squared. “Lieutenant Richards assured us the plane can and will fly. There’s nothing on it that can’t be fixed.”

“Yeah, well, damn well better hope so, Slick. Cuz I ain’t even stepping foot on this baby until it is. That’s a promise,” Clint retorted, folding his arms over his chest, mimicking Ward’s stance.

The pair stood in a locked stare-down for a long moment before Ward finally shifted, his weight settling on his left leg.

“Well, _Lieutenant_ ,” Ward drew the word out almost mockingly and Clint could practically taste the sarcasm wrapped around it, and oh how he wanted to shove it right back down Ward’s throat. “In case you haven’t noticed, there happens to be a war going on. And this squadron?” Ward dropped his arms in order to motion around at the base, “We’re not exactly a top priority. You get that? We make do with what we have, and if Lieutenant Richards says this plane will fly, then it’s going to fly.”

Without giving Clint a chance to respond, Ward did an about-face and marched off in the other direction, heading towards the communications hut. Clint glared daggers into Ward’s retreating form as he mumbled choice words under his breath. On base not even twenty-four hours and already Clint was butting heads.

He wondered if the guy was always that big of a jackass, or if maybe he’d done something in a past life to offend Ward and now this was payback. Of course, it could have also been that Ward had seen Clint’s records, seen the trouble he’d been in since the moment he got his draft letter, and decided Clint was a bad egg. It wasn’t the first time it happened, and probably wouldn’t be the last.

Movement to his left caught Clint’s attention, causing him to glance off to the side as Tony came to stand next to him. His face and hands were already covered in oil and grease, with dark smudges going down his coveralls. He was kind of a mess to look at.

“Aw, looks like you’ve made a new friend,” quipped Tony as he wiped his hands on a rag. “How sweet is he, huh?”

Clint huffed and shook his head, turning his attention back to the battered plane. Where the other planes shined with a polished, silvery glow in the sunlight, the one Clint had been assigned was dingy and dented. Cosmetically, it was the biggest eyesore Clint had seen since he was a kid, and he didn’t even want to think about what her insides looked like.

As he stepped close to the wing, he pulled a cigarette from his pocket. “The guy’s somethin’, but sweet sure as hell ain’t it.”

Tony stepped to the plane, already moving to start checking it over, trying to see what all the fuss had been about. “Yeah, he’s definitely a knucklehead, that’s for sure.”

“I’d like to give him a knuckle _sandwich_ ,” mumbled Clint around his cigarette. He drew a long drag off it and tilted his head back to blow the smoke out slowly. It billowed around him before swirling on the breeze to be taken up into the clouds.

Tony gave a hum of acknowledgement from his place on the wing, where he stood staring into the dirty glass of the canopy with his drab olive mechanic's hat turned around backwards, its wide brim nearly flush on the back of his neck, and his eyes squinting.

“Canopy’s kinda rusted, but that’s an easy fix. Little elbow grease, we’ll get ‘er movin’ slicker than a call-girl’s cooter in no time. The panels look pretty decent though,” He paused to rub the sleeve of his uniform across the glass to clean it, “There’s no broken glass on the gauges and everything’s intact. All in all, it doesn’t look too terrible.”

Again, Clint barked a short half-laugh. He turned to watch Tony hop off the wing to duck under the nose of the plane and come up on the other side.

“Not terrible?” Clint asked, brow raised in skepticism.

“No,” answered Tony with a shake of the head. He spoke with certainty and conviction that Clint didn’t feel. Especially not regarding this plane.

“Hey, look. She may not be a real dish anymore, but we do a little work with her and we can probably get her pretty spiffy again in a day or two. Besides,” Tony paused, a hand over his heart and a mock-compassionate look to his face, “it’s what’s on the inside that counts. Beauty is but skin deep.”

Clint rolled his eyes and stomped out the butt of his cigarette. “Well, if anyone would know, guess it’d be you.”

“Aw Boo-baby, don’t be like that. I love you, don’t I?”

“Get this bucket of bolts shining nice and I’ll believe that you do.”

“Well,” Tony huffed, eyes darting to the right as he fixed his cap, “I see how it is. I suppose next you’ll be wanting me to enhance the weapons? Build you a whole new airplane?”

A playful and teasing smirk crept up Clint’s face. He shrugged, gave the plane a once over again, and lifted his shoulders once more. “Yeah, that’d be great, baby doll. Thanks!”

A squawk of outrage came from the opposite side of the plane, drawing a laugh out of Clint.

“Who do you think I am? Howard Stark?” Tony came around the front of the nose, shooing him away with a wave of his arm. “I’m not gonna build you a whole new plane! Get the hell outta here. Go do whatever it is you flyboys do when you’re not flying. I need some alone time with Baby.”

Eyebrow quirked again, Clint shook his head. There was no way his plane was going to be named ‘Baby’. ‘Death Trap’ or maybe ‘Croak Boat’, possibly even just ‘Bupkis’, but definitely not ‘ _Baby_ ’.

“You’re not calling her that.”

Tony didn’t bother to look up from where he was rubbing at a streak of scoring on the right wing. “Yes, I am and I just did. It’s her name, so deal with it.”

“No, Tony. It’s not her name. We’re not calling my plane _Baby_.”

“Maybe you’re not, but I am. So, that’s that. Now, aren’t you supposed to be leaving? Getting the hell outta here so I can work some magic on our beautiful baby girl and get her all shiny and ready to go again?” Tony asked. This time he at least looked over his shoulder at Clint and waved the stained red rag at him, shooing him away. “Go. Be gone, before someone drops a house on you or something.”

Once again raising his eyebrow, Clint shook his head fondly. Tony was certainly a character all of his own; but he was a good guy and even though they'd only known each other less than a week, it felt like they'd been friends forever. The banter and jokes flowed easily between them and Clint had maybe found a bit of a kindred spirit in the eccentric mechanic. He wasn’t sure how or why, but he definitely felt like he could relate to Tony better than anyone else he’d met in the Army so far. Truthfully? It was nice to have a friend.

Clint slapped Tony’s back as he walked past him, leaving him to his work. There wasn’t a whole lot to do on base except wander around and get a feel for the place and its people, and, if Clint got really bored, he could always go back to help Tony with the plane. After all, he wasn’t just a pilot; he could work on things too. Hell, he was pretty damn great at fixing things. Most of the time.

He had just stepped into the clearing when he caught sight of Coulson striding across the grounds, though he didn't seem to be heading anywhere in any particular hurry. So, after a quick glance around to make sure no one was watching, Clint broke into a light jog to catch up and come into stride next to him.

“Afternoon, Coulson,” he smiled, giving one of his best smiles. It was the one he’d always been told gave him a boyish charm.

Coulson’s head turned and for a brief moment he actually looked surprised to find Clint walking with him. It was just a quick flash, though, there and gone in the blink of an eye before it was replaced with a small, bland smile.

“Lieutenant Barton,” Coulson greeted with a nod, “how are you enjoying our little base?”

With practiced ease, Clint rolled his shoulders in a shrug as he slid his hands into his pockets.

“Well, it’s no Ritz, but it ain’t the front lines, either. So, I guess it’s a pretty decent place to be.” Clint said, pausing to cast Coulson a quick once-over. Khaki tan from head to toe had never been one of Clint’s favorite looks, especially not on himself, but for Coulson? It worked. Boy, did it _ever_ work. His crusher was perched at just a slight upwards angle on his head, which did a decent job of covering his dark brown hair. His tan tie was tucked between the second and third button on his shirt, as per regulations, whereas Clint was just waiting to be called out on being “out of uniform” for not wearing his, and for having the top two buttons of his shirt undone to begin with.

There was no doubt that Coulson was career Army and was probably from an Army family at that. It worked for him, though. And it seemed to suit him, which Clint liked... a lot.

Looking back ahead of him, Clint gave a nonchalant shrug. “Plus, the scenery here ain’t half bad.” And he wasn’t just talking about the trees, either. “Better than a lot of other places I’ve been, that’s for sure.”

Out of the corner of his eye, he watched Coulson turn his head just slightly to give him a curious look, and fought to keep the smirk off his face. Oh, the places he’d been in his life. None of them the best places in the world, but all of them an adventure, for sure.

Pretending not to notice, Clint glanced back again and met Coulson’s gaze. “You guys don’t see a whole lot of action though, do ya’s? I mean, that’s why I was sent here, right? To keep me outta trouble and everything. Put me someplace nice and safe and boring.”

Coulson shook his head. “We see our fair share,” he answered as he turned to start towards the mess hall, Clint staying with him every step of the way. “We’re sent out on raids every once in a great while, and our fighters run escorts for bombers once or twice a week.”

Yeah, Clint had been right. Boring.

Clint followed Coulson into the dimly-lit mess hall and into line right behind him. The hall wasn’t much more than an abandoned barn that had been outfitted in a hurry to serve as the kitchen and dining area. Two long rows of tables with benches ran down the middle of the barn with room between them for a main aisle, while the grub line formed to the left side. A steel drum was in the dead center of the walkway, no doubt their heater in the winter months.

With his tray in hand, Clint shook his head and shuffled down the line to have that afternoon's lunch slopped down for him.

“Yeah, well.” He leaned in close to Coulson’s side, reaching around him for a small, white coffee cup. “Unless Tony can work some magic on the plane Mr. Personality assigned me, I won’t be flying any missions any time soon.”

Coulson looked back over his shoulder, confusion etched across his face. “‘Mr. Personality’?”

Clint hummed in acknowledgement. “Lieutenant Frowny-Face... has the pet Scotsman.”

A sudden laugh escaped Coulson, but was quickly cut off as if the Major hadn’t intended to let it slip out. It sounded like it’d be a nice laugh, if Coulson ever let himself do such a thing. Clint’s new short term goal? Get Major Coulson to full-out laugh. Possibly even to the point of tears.

“I have heard Grant Ward get called a lot of things, but ‘Mr. Personality’ and ‘Lieutenant Frowny-Face’ are definitely two new ones.”

“I could think of a lot of things to call him,” Clint confessed as they made their way to an empty table. Coulson sat on the side closest to the wall, with a good view of the exits, while Clint sat in the aisle. Setting his tray down, Clint looked up and smirked, "but I can guarantee they won't be the most flattering things in the world."

Coulson shook his head and lifted his coffee cup to his lips. “Ward isn’t as bad as you seem to think he is. It just takes a little while for him to warm up to people. Once you guys get to know each other, you’ll see.”

“All due respect, sir? I’d rather kick his ass. You should see the bucket of bolts he handed off to me as my plane. I wouldn’t trust that thing to work the clown act in the air races back home.”

There was barely a pause before Coulson spoke up. “Ward didn’t assign you that plane.”

Clint’s head shot up at the slightly-amused tone in Coulson’s voice. His eyes wide, Clint dropped his fork down onto his tray with a metallic clatter . “He didn’t? You--”

“I assigned you that plane,” Coulson stated with a nod before turning his attention back to his macaroni and cheese. “I figured, given your record in the air, and Carbonell’s record as a mechanic, that you’d have no problems flying it. It’d be a challenge for you.”

A feather could have knocked Clint over right at that moment. He stared at Coulson as the Major just casually went about eating his lunch. Why in the world would he think Clint would want to fly that hunk of junk? Of all the available planes out on the line, Coulson assigned him that one! On second thought, maybe it wasn’t Ward that Clint had wronged in a past life. It had to have been Coulson.

All around them, pilots and personnel began to file in for their midday meal, oblivious to Clint’s pain. If it weren’t for the fact Clint wanted to behave, and wanted to believe that this Coulson guy wasn’t like the other jackass commanding officers he’d had in the past, Clint probably would have lunged across the table in order to deck him. As it was, his dull nails dug into his palm as his hands curled into fists in his lap.

“You,” Clint growled, clamping his jaw tight as he glanced down the line of GIs and then back at Coulson, “ _you_ assigned me that plane?”

Coulson hummed around his fork as he nodded.

“Because you thought it’d be a _challenge_ for me?” Clint’s voice pitched just a bit higher as he leaned across his tray. Only to be met with another hum and nod. The urge to throw a punch was steadily rising.

Scoffing, Clint shook his head. His eyes narrowed as he growled, “What? Because fighting in a fucking war isn’t challenge _enough_?”

What the hell, right? Fighting in a war was apparently easy. Going up into a firefight and not knowing if you were going to come down in one piece was a walk in the park. Only a damned fool would believe that. Clint was a lot of things – undereducated, scrappy, smart-mouthed, and a fighter – but a fool? No. He’d never been a fool. Not once in his life. That got beat out of him right from the start.

And, as if to add insult to injury, Coulson was sitting there across from him, staring at him in the blandest and most infuriating way possible. Like he thought Clint really was an idiot. At least, that’s what Clint’s mind told him. A coiled spring wound itself up tight in the pit of Clint’s stomach, making him damn near vibrate for a fight. Behaving was overrated anyhow.

Coulson stayed quiet for a long moment before he finally shook his head, his right shoulder shrugging up and falling back again. “No. I don’t think it is.”

The way Coulson said that, how calm his voice was and the nonchalance to it was incredible. And enough to make Clint see red. He’d been wrong. This guy was wacky. Utterly and completely nuts!

Standing abruptly, Clint shoved his tray away and reached across the table, jabbing his finger into Coulson's chest. “Listen Major, I dunno what exactly you’ve been told about me, but I’m no meatball and I’m sure as hell no knucklehead. Anybody who thinks havin’ control of a machine that shouldn't be able to fly to begin with, let alone in the middle of a goddamn war zone, isn't enough of a challenge needs to have their damn head looked at. Ya know?"

The nerve of Coulson! What was worse - Coulson didn’t even try to deny it! He simply nodded and gave a small shrug and not-smile.

Clint growled in frustration, spinning away from the table and damn near tripping over the bench as he went storming out. He was half a second away from knocking that damn not-smile off Coulson’s face! And possibly take a couple of teeth with it!

As he stormed out of the mess hall, Clint shouldered between Ward and the much-shorter Fitz, not even bothering to utter an apology or stop when Ward yelled out to him. Lucky caught up to him after a few seconds, the mutt yelping happily as he trailed on Clint’s heels back to the flight line. Clint never noticed. He was too busy trying not to just steal a plane and go for a joyride with it. It was tempting, but what was even more tempting was the sudden need he had to get the damn wreck he’d been given back into working order, and with any luck have a reason to go up and shoot the hell out of things.

Clint finally let his fists relax once the planes were in sight. The engine of his plane was exposed to the sun, with a ladder next to the nose, and a pair of gently kicking legs about the only thing still visible of Tony. Where or how his upper half managed to get wedged in there, Clint had no idea. It was something he didn’t want to know. Didn’t particularly care, either, for that matter.

“Carbonell!” Clint barked, smacking his hand against the metal body as he walked past. From the engine compartment, a dull thunk sounded, followed closely by a yelp of pain, which Clint ignored in favor of grabbing a mallet from the toolbox and starting for the left wing.

“I need something to beat on for a while. What on this flying coffin can I hit?”

“Nothing!” came Tony’s muffled reply. A moment later, Tony wiggled back down to the ground and rushed around the propeller, grabbing the mallet from Clint. “Nothing! Don’t you dare lay a harsh hand on Baby! If you want something to do, gauge the spark plugs for me and start giving her a damned bath. There’s gotta be four layers of dirt covering her. I’ve nearly got her all checked out and tuned up.”

Tony puffed his chest out with pride as he ran his hand down the propeller fondly. “She’ll be purring in no time, just like I promised. You’ll get your plane, and if I play my cards right, I’ll get a ride into town with Banner for a little sight-seeing tonight.”

A fierce scowl etched across Clint’s face, and it only deepened as the mallet was yanked from his hands. He wasn’t exactly in any mood to hear about how Tony managed to arrange that, or about whatever plans he had to try and make a pass on their bunkmate.

Brushing past Tony, Clint grabbed the spark plugs and gauge off the wing. He just needed something to do; he needed something to keep his mind busy and work out his frustrations without getting himself into trouble. Or more trouble than he probably already was in. After all, he’d just told off his CO, and as far as Clint knew that meant his ticket was just about punched.

So he did what Tony told him to do, he made sure the tips of the spark plugs were clean and gauged properly and then set to work washing the whole plane down, from the tip of the propeller to the tip of the tail rudder. It still didn’t help the fact there were dents and bullet holes scattered through it, but at least it helped make it shine a bit brighter.

He worked hard the rest of the afternoon, sweat dampening his shirt against his back and sticking his bangs to his forehead. Every once in a while, Tony would break into a song and get Clint to join him for a verse or two. It was a good distraction, actually. Not only that, it was good, hard work, and that was something Clint had always found calming for some reason. There was a grounding factor for him, and it helped put his thoughts and feelings back in check.

Clint stepped back from the plane when he felt a hand drop on his shoulder, pulling him away to look at their good work. And yeah, okay, in the late afternoon light, the plane maybe didn’t look so bad. She definitely needed a good polishing and repaint, but that could be taken care of. And the holes needed to be patched, but Tony had already assured him even with the holes she’d still fly with the best of them.

“Well Francine,” Tony teased, grinning as he passed his cigarette off to Clint, “What do you think of our baby girl now?”

After a long drag off the cigarette, Clint gave a small nod. “She’s still ugly, and I haven’t heard her purr like you promised yet.”

Tony grabbed his smoke back and shoved his hand right between Clint’s shoulder blades, pushing him towards the plane. “You just hop your ass on up into that cockpit and fire ‘er up. You’ll hear her purr soon enough.”

A bright and lighthearted grin spread across Clint’s face as he clambered up the wing and slid the canopy back – it moved smooth as butter, just like Tony had sworn it would. There was already a parachute pack on the seat and Clint bounced just slightly on it as he dropped himself down into the cockpit.

It took him a second to do the pre-ignition check, a habit anytime he climbed into a plane, before he finally hit the switch to fire the engine and get the propeller moving. Black smoke billowed out from the engine as it spit and sputtered, working the old junk out before it rattled peacefully in its cradle. It roared and it purred and it was possibly the best sound in the world.

Down on the ground, Tony gave a whoop of joy as he waved his hat around over his head, his face-splitting grin mirroring Clint's in the cockpit. The tail wheel was replaced and was fresh to go, and Tony had made sure that all the gauges and controls checked out. All right, so maybe she was a good plane after all. At least down on the ground she was, anyway. With Tony’s help, Clint was able to run through the preflight checklist to ensure his flaps and tail rudder were all working properly.

A joyful laugh bubbled up out of Clint as he shifted and readjusted in the cockpit, itching to take her for a spin. He wanted to circle the base and come down low to buzz Coulson’s quarters just for the hell of it. Maybe even see if he could get Ward to run so he could chase him down the runway or something. The guy kind of deserved it. A little.

Clint’s grinning and laughter continued as he let Baby – okay, okay, her name was Baby – run, just in case she needed to work any lingering gremlins out of her. He was just getting ready to throw caution to the wind and take her for an unscheduled joy ride anyway when he caught sight of Tony’s suddenly ashen face. His dark eyes were wide and terrified, and he seemed to be frozen in place, staring up over the top of Clint’s plane.

There wasn’t any time to shout a question down to him, not before the sounds of bullets whizzing through the air reached his ears. In a heartbeat, Tony was ducking low to yank the wheel chocks out from the main wheels of the plane. An air raid siren screamed to life and the base exploded in a flurry of yells and action.

Men were running every which way -- some to get to the machine guns on the ground and others to their planes -- as German Messerschmitts tore down low, attempting to take out as many planes and men as they could. Clint ducked low in his seat, covering his head and cursing up a storm before he could finally get his canopy closed. His heart was racing and his hands shook as he took the controls and did the only thing he could think of.

He started down the runway.

It probably wasn’t his smartest plan, but there was no way in hell he was going to let those damn Krauts get him while he was still on the ground. He didn’t even have time to pull his headset on before he was pushing Baby to her max ground speed, taking to the air with barely an inch to spare between his wheels and the trees.  

There weren’t many 109’s in the formation -- not much more than six or seven -- and how they had even gotten to that part of England was anyone’s guess. Still, they were there, and they were looking for a fight. Clint was about to give them one.

A hard bank to the left and he was able to see that two more boys had taken to the air and joined the fun behind him. After those two, another three came up in hot pursuit. Six versus six were pretty damn good odds, but Clint didn’t have any plans of letting all six Germans get back to their Fatherland. At least not in one piece.

He took Baby up to her top elevation before swooping into a dive to go after one of the 109s that was heading back for another pass at the base. Clint opened fire as he came down from behind, scores of bright red exploded out of his wing guns and hit the ground more than he did the Kraut.

“Get back here you sonofabitch!” Clint growled, sending off another spray of bullets -- which hit home this time, peppering across the 109’s tail and side as it pulled up. Clint stayed hot on his tail, trying to down him into the trees or the open pasture.

It was no good though. The Messerschmitts regrouped and took off east again, the wind to their backs to make a hasty retreat. He would have followed after them if Coulson hadn’t suddenly appeared at his right wing, motioning him back to the ground with a none-too-amused look on his face. He’d probably been trying to get Clint over the headset, but hell, Clint didn’t have his turned on, let alone have it on his head.

Letting out another small string of curses, Clint threw an absent thumbs up to Coulson, letting him know he’d seen him and understood what he was supposed to do. Following Coulson’s lead, they banked right and came around for their landing approach. When they did, Clint could see how much damage had been done to the base; at least three planes were in flames and a couple of Quonset huts were nothing but rubble, and there were a dozen or more men injured on the ground. At least three of whom wouldn’t be going home to any parades ever again.

Clint couldn't help but wonder if he'd been the reason some of those men were hurt, or worse. After all, he hadn’t been paying attention when he went after that Messerschmitt, and his first barrage didn't hit much of anything.

Once his plane was back on the ground, Clint took just a moment to enjoy the feel of a cockpit one last time. He probably wasn’t going to sit in one again for quite a while. If ever again. Clint waited until he saw Coulson coming towards him before he finally pushed back the canopy and shoved himself up and over onto the wing.

“Just what the hell did you think you were doing?” Coulson demanded, coming up to stand practically nose-to-nose with Clint after he had hopped down off the wing.

Clint squared his shoulders, ready for the next blow. The heave-ho back to the States and probably a dishonorable discharge. Boy, wouldn’t that make his old man real proud.

“Doin’ what we came here to do, sir. Fight the—“

“You don’t ever fly in a battle without your headset on, is that clear?”

Well, that was unexpected. Clint blinked twice, his jaw working to try and form words. “Sir?”

In front of him, Coulson jabbed his finger into Clint’s chest. “I don’t care if you take a bullet to the ass in the process, the minute you sit down in that plane, you’d better have your chute strapped to your back and your headset on. It’s one thing if your set malfunctions in the air and someone has to come chasing after you to tell you to turn back; it’s another to discover the reason no one could reach you was because you weren’t even wearing the damn thing to begin with. How the hell do you expect to call for help if you need it? Or to know you need to go help someone else?”

Clint stared dumbfounded at Coulson for a long minute. That was what he was pissed off about? Clint not wearing his headset? Seriously? Snapping his jaw shut, Clint gave a small nod. “I’m sorry, sir. It won’t happen again.”

“Damn well better not,” Coulson fumed, turning his back on Clint. It was only then that Clint realized the man hadn’t been wearing his crusher, or any hat, actually. The breeze caught the wispy brown hair and tousled it gently as Coulson started off across camp, Ward and Fitz falling into step beside him.

Taking a deep breath, Clint ran a hand down his face and up through his hair. How in the world he’d managed to dodge that bullet – pun intended – he didn’t know. He thought for sure his goose was cooked and Coulson was going to toss him out on his ear. With a heavy sigh, he turned towards the rest of the base, taking in all the damage before heading off to help with clean-up where he could.

 


	4. Chapter 4

 

It was difficult for Clint to find enough peace in order to sleep that night. His mind was still racing from the firefight. He’d been in a couple of small skirmishes in the past, but always in the air, never on the ground. It was terrifying to be a sitting duck like he’d been. It was one thing to be in the air and firing down on unsuspecting bases, it was another to be on the ground when it happens. Now he knew how most everyone in Europe felt. The terror that stays bubbled in the pit of your stomach, wondering if another attack was going to happen, and when. If you were going to survive it.

The air in his silent bunk grew thinner the longer he thought about it. It suddenly felt like he was in a stall, gasping for oxygen and finding none, only the dizzying spin of chaos. Everything felt like it was too much and the darkness was swallowing him whole the longer he lay there. He wanted to scream out, and maybe he did, but he couldn’t tell. He couldn’t hear anything, just the screams of men all around him and the deafening _ratta-tat-tat_ of the guns going off in his ears.

Clint’s whole body was shaking. Shaking frantically.

With a sudden gasp for air, Clint’s eyes shot wide open. He jerked as he moved to sit up. A hand was pressing down on his chest, holding him down to keep him from thrashing himself off the cot. From the floor, Lucky whined and whimpered, his tail thumping quietly against the dirty, wooden ground. Distantly, Clint thought he heard his name being called. Someone crying out for his help.

“Clint. _Clint_! C’mon fella, it’s okay! Breathe. Just breathe.”

Breathing was easy when there was actually air to breathe. He tried to follow the voice’s instructions though. He tried to breathe, it just wasn’t working.

“Here,” a new voice joined the mix; it was quiet and gentle but firm. “Put this around his nose and mouth. Get him to breathe in and out of it. He’s getting too much oxygen.”

There was a rustle of paper for a moment before Clint’s mouth and nose was covered. His hand was brought up to hold the bag in place as he struggled to breathe. It was taken away after a few breaths, then replaced again. This pattern repeated until he was able to pull in the deep, regular breaths he’d been needing.

It took a minute for the fog to clear, and for Clint to realize it was Bruce and Tony hovering over him. Bruce looked like he was still half asleep with his undershirt all askew and hair disheveled, while Tony looked like he hadn’t been to sleep at all to begin with. Both were looking at him like he’d sprouted a third eye in the center of his forehead. Though, maybe Bruce looked just a bit more sympathetic.

Clint’s eyes darted from one face to the other. “What happened?”

Tony shrugged. “Beats the hell outta me.”

“You must have been having a nightmare,” Bruce shook his head as he folded the paper bag back up. “You were screaming and couldn’t breathe.”

“You pretty much scared the living hell out of us. Probably the whole camp, too, the way you were carrying on.”

His head felt fuzzy and he shook it to try and clear it. He didn’t remember falling asleep, but, maybe he had? It was possible, he supposed.

A quiet groan escaped him as he pushed himself up to a sitting position. Bruce and Tony were both right there to help him and keep him steady, even if he didn’t actually need it. Which he didn’t, thank you very much, but he appreciated the gesture anyway.

Clint waved their hands off and moved to stand. Lucky licked at his bare toes, making shivers go down Clint’s spine. God he hated when the damn dog did that. Gently, he nudged the dog’s side with the top of his foot as he shuffled past. Tony was at his side after a few steps, his arm on Clint’s elbow.

“Hey, c’mon,” Tony said, giving him a small tug. “Let’s take a walk. Clear your head.”

“What the hell do you think I was doing?” grumbled Clint.

Tony just huffed a soft laugh and shook his head. “Yeah, well, I got something that might help get your head back on straight.”

* * *

 

Clint fought to keep his laughter in check as Tony applied the last bit of adhesive to the bottom of Ward’s boots, careful not to get any on his hands before setting the boots back down without a sound. When they’d slipped out of their own bunk and out across the dark, quiet camp, Clint had no idea what Tony had in store for him. Not even once they got to the small stone shack that Ward had taken as his own bunk.

Well, his and Leo Fitz’s.

Fitz slept soundly in his own cot on the other side of the shack, curled up into a ball on his side and clutching to a truly frightening-looking stuffed monkey. The kind with the wide eyes and an open mouth that showed off a row of teeth and dressed in a gaudy vest and fez. Complete with toy cymbals. Clint just knew the damn thing was watching them, judging them and silently screeching its displeasure at their secret invasion. It was definitely creepy looking, and if it weren’t for the fact Fitz probably would have gone into an absolute frenzy, Clint would have suggested they do something about the damn judgmental toy monkey, too.

So far though, Fitz seemed like a good kid, despite his poor taste in friends. Clint opted to leave him out of the pranks as best as he could. For now, at least.

When they had slipped into the shack, Tony pulled a small tin canister out from under his shirt, held a finger to his lips, and slunk for Ward’s bed. They weren’t going to do anything too horrible, just glue his boots to the floor. At least for a start, anyway. There were other boots he could wear, it wasn’t like they put itching powder in his BVDs. Though it was tempting.

Their deed done, the pair slipped back out into the night just as quietly as they’d snuck in and made their way quickly back to the hangar so Tony could put the adhesive away before Richards knew it was missing. They darted back across the camp, making sure they kept dipping low under windows so as not to cast shadows and risk being caught, and hiding at corners when night patrol guards would go ambling by.

“What the hell even was that shit?” Clint finally whispered, ducking past a window and popping up on the other side, Tony right beside him.

Tony grinned wickedly and shrugged. “Adhesive.”

Clint rolled his eyes and smacked his friend upside the head just as they reached their own bunk again. “I figured adhesive, but what’s it for?”

The air still held faint traces of burnt out planes and the rubble of Quonset huts from that evening’s attack, but Clint could feel himself more at ease in his skin again. Like a weight was lifted off his chest and breathing wasn’t quite so hard anymore. There was even a chance he’d be able to fall asleep and not have nightmares now.

Standing in the glow of the pale moonlight shining through their window, Tony grinned brighter and rocked back on his feet. He stole a quick glance behind him to make sure Bruce was asleep – if Bruce was asleep, then he had plausible deniability if anyone asked what they’d done; he couldn’t give anyone answers if he didn’t have any – before he looked back to Clint.

“That stuff,” he whispered, “is high-strength aviation adhesive used to help keep planes together. It’ll withstand heat up to four-hundred degrees, and unless you know somebody who can lift up a loaded tractor-trailer, those boots won’t be moved any time soon. Hell, long after this war is over, people are gonna be standing there scratching their heads at the sight of those boots just sitting there in the middle of the floor."

Clint stared at Tony, not sure if that was genius or insanity.

Head tilted, Clint thought on it for a moment, before shrugging. “Guess it’s a good thing we didn’t glue his blankets to the bed around him then, after all, huh?”

With a huff and chuckle, Tony turned to crawl back into his cot again and get comfortable. “Eh, Fitz could have cut him out with a pair of scissors in the morning.”

“True.” Clint nodded as he settled himself on his own cot, not quite ready to lie back down.

Lucky lifted his head from the floor and stared up at Clint, a quiet, worried whine coming from him. Clint leaned an elbow on his knee and reached down to scratch at his dog’s head, rub behind his ears for him and reassure Lucky that everything was okay. And if it helped to reassure Clint that everything was okay, well, no one had to be the wiser, right?

Behind him, Tony’s cot creaked and settled.

“You gonna be okay, Barton?” Tony’s voice was quiet, but sincere as it drifted through the darkness.

With one last scritch behind Lucky’s ear, Clint shifted back under the scratchy wool blanket and rolled to his side, tucking one arm under his pillow while fisting his other hand into Lucky's soft fur for grounding. He took a deep breath, held it for a moment, and gave a nod to no one.

“Yeah,” he murmured, finally letting his eyes fall shut and body to relax. “Yeah, I’m good.”

* * *

 

The following morning dawned with the sound of Reveille being blown from somewhere near the center of camp, and with it came the moans and groans of soldiers from all directions. The start of a new day. A clean slate. In less than five minutes, the doors to the bunks were opening, men stumbling out half-dressed, or wrapped securely in their robes, shower kits in hand and towels flung over their shoulders.

Inside the small stone shack where Lieutenant Grant Ward woke, feeling refreshed and ready to start his morning routine, the bugle horn also brought another sound with it. A yell of surprise and the crash of broken wooden furniture, followed the solid thud of a body hitting the floor.

The boots never moved from the spot next to Ward’s cot.

* * *

 

Clint and Tony were sitting next to each other in the mess hall, freshly showered and feeling just slightly more human after getting some of the sludge known as coffee into their systems. Bruce sat across from them, still bleary-eyed and barely mumbling a word to them as he worked his way through his breakfast. Bruce was a great many things: an accidental ace for the Germans, an apparent genius (so Tony claimed, anyway), and an all-around pretty decent guy, but a morning person? No. He definitely was not a morning person. Actually, it was kind of amusing to watch the way everyone else in camp cut him a wide berth as he stumbled by in the morning. It was like they were afraid of what he might do to them if they came between him and his breakfast and coffee.

Clint was fairly convinced Bruce wouldn’t hurt a fly, even if he did shy away a bit when Bruce full-on growled low in his throat after Clint reached for one of his bacon slices.

At his side, Tony laughed. “Oh yeah,” he mused, coffee cup halfway to his mouth. “Man of my dreams, right there.”

Bruce rolled his eyes, but said nothing as he continued to eat, half hunched over his tray.

From the door, a low whistle rang out that drew Clint and Tony’s attention away from their own breakfasts and in the direction of the entrance. Ward stood tall, his jaw set, as he made his way down the grub line. Fitz was ahead of him, nervously glancing back every few steps and muttering under his breath. Whether it was to himself or to Ward was anyone's guess, especially with that kid. They’d just reached the coffee when Coulson stepped up behind them and cleared his throat.

Clint took a moment to appreciate the sight of the Major. It was definitely wrong to be focusing on the way Coulson’s khaki tan slacks seemed to fit him in all the right places, but oh boy did they ever. He was dressed down, his brown Ike jacket left back in his bunk, leaving him in just the matching tan shirt and tie. His silver maple leaf insignia glinted on his collar in the dim light, and Clint could see, even from that distance, the amused smirk that was twitching at the corner of Coulson’s mouth.

“Lieutenant,” Phil greeted, drawing Fitz and Ward’s attention around behind them. Ward straightened his shoulders and lifted his chin slightly. His right eye was partially swollen with a beautiful shade of black and purple creeping in around it.

Phil tilted his head, dark eyebrows knitted together just slightly as he took in the angry shiner. “Did you have an altercation this morning, Lieutenant?”

Ward squared his shoulders. “No, sir.”

“What happened to your eye, then?”

There was a brief hesitation as Ward glanced away, clearly not wanting to answer the question. Phil looked between his second-in-command and Fitz. He waited for one of them to answer before he turned his attention to the rest of the mess. Those closest to them quickly looked away, pretending like they hadn’t been listening in and gawking. When his eyes landed on Barton and Carbonell though, it became clear they knew something but weren’t sharing. At least, Carbonell looked like he did. Barton most likely did too, if the innocent puppy dog look he was throwing Phil’s way was anything to go on.

Turning back to Ward, Phil waited.

“I tripped this morning,” Ward finally answered, his voice steady despite the way his ears flushed in embarrassment. “Landed on my nightstand. It’s fine.”

Phil hummed and nodded. He glanced down then and quirked an eyebrow when he saw bare feet sticking out from the cuffs of tan slacks. “And…your boots?”

Ward pressed his lips together in a tight, thin line as he clenched his jaw before he looked away again, taking a deep breath. “They’re glued to my barracks floor, sir. I’m waiting on Sergeant Reynolds to find me another pair.”

Quiet snorts and badly-concealed chuckles drifted up from nearby tables and the men standing around them. Phil himself had to bite back his amusement. It wasn’t fair to Grant, but at the same time, maybe being the butt of a practical joke would help to loosen him up a bit and stop taking everything so seriously. Did that mean Phil approved of the prank? No, of course not. And he was going to make sure the culprits were found and punished for it. That didn’t mean he didn’t find it funny, though, because yeah, it kind of was. Besides, he’d pulled his fair share of pranks within ranks when he’d been younger.

“I see. And what about your shoes?” Phil’s eyes dropped down to his own shiny brown leather uniform shoes before looking back up to Ward.

It was Fitz who answered this time, though. “They got a nail in the heel. I took them into town to be fixed yesterday.” He fidgeted awkwardly, eyes darting from one soldier to the other and back again. “They won’t be done until next week.”

Phil turned his attention back to where his new mechanic and pilot were sitting, both watching with far more interest than polite curiosity called for.

“There’s an extra pair in my quarters, Fitz, go grab them,” he said, his eyes never leaving the duo. “Ward, go put some socks on. You can borrow my extras until yours are either repaired or Sergeant Reynolds finds you another pair of boots. Excuse me.”

He made his way down the aisle, never looking away from Barton. Phil watched the way the pilot shifted in place and turned his focus back on his breakfast like it was the most interesting thing in the world. Phil knew better. Powdered scrambled eggs and hash were nowhere near fascinating.

“Lieutenants,” he greeted with an easy nod, watching the way Lieutenant Carbonell nearly choked on his coffee. “Enjoying yourselves?”

Carbonell cleared his throat and turned his large brown eyes on Phil, meeting his gaze innocently. “Housekeeping keeps forgetting the little chocolate mint on my pillow, I’d like to make a formal complaint about that. But otherwise…”

Barton stifled a laugh behind his hand as he looked up from under his long, dark lashes. There wasn’t a doubt in Phil’s mind that Barton knew he was a good looking man, and used it to his advantage. Phil was going to do everything in his power to not let it get out of hand. No matter how attractive Barton was.

“We’re having a grand ol’ time, Major,” Barton nudged Carbonell’s arm with his elbow. “Aren’t we?”

“Oh,” Carbonell agreed with a nod, swallowing his last sludge of coffee, “just a fan-fucking-tastic time. Right Bruce?”

Across the table, Banner lifted his head and blinked at the three opposite him in sleepy confusion. “Uhhh…”

Phil kept his face a blank mask. It wasn’t going to do him any good to let on that he was amused by his two newest squadron members. They were already turning out to be a handful, there was no doubt about that, but they were certainly proving to be a small breath of fresh air in this stale war. He wasn’t going to admit it to anyone, but he found himself feeling perhaps just a little fond of the pair. Barton in particular. Though, that had maybe less to do with his antics and jokes and more to do with his attraction to the younger Lieutenant.

Phil _definitely_ wasn’t going to admit _that_.

“I’d like to have a word with you,” Phil stepped aside to give Barton and Carbonell space in order to stand up from their bench. Their shoulders both dropped in perfect synchronization as they glanced at each other and nudged their trays away. Once they were on their feet, Phil looked back to Banner with one eyebrow quirked. “You too, Banner.”

Banner’s eyes went wide, his jaw falling slack like a fish out of water. Confusion and betrayal were in his eyes as he looked at Carbonell, then Barton, and back to Carbonell before he stood. As he did, Phil noticed the way the generally mild pilot shot his bunkmates a murderous scowl and didn’t feel the least bit of sympathy for them. Something told him that Banner didn’t have anything to do with the prank that had been played on Ward, but given that he was rooming with the two Phil did suspect were behind it, he needed to question Banner, too.

He followed behind the trio until they stepped out into the early morning sun. Dew glittered on the grass and there was just the faintest trace of fog left lingering in the open fields flanking the runway. Across the camp, a doe and her fawn lifted their heads from where they were grazing and stared in alertness, their tails twitching, before they turned and darted back into the forest. Starlings, Chaffinches, and Goldcrests sang their morning reports from the trees and pastures as the four went marching through camp.

Once inside Phil’s quarters, with the door shut behind them, Phil leaned his hip against his desk and folded his arms across his chest. Barton, Banner, and Carbonell all stood in front of him with their hands behind their backs in parade rest. Well at least they had enough sense to know they were in trouble and should pretend to be professionals.

Phil stared them down for a moment before focusing on Banner, even though he was addressing all three of them. “I’m going to go out on a limb here and say that one or two of you had something to do with Lieutenant Ward’s boots being glued to his barrack’s floor. Am I correct?”

Again, Banner’s eyes widened and he shot a glance to his left where Carbonell was standing, feigning innocence.

“Sir,” Banner shook his head quickly as he looked back to Phil. “I had nothing to do with it. Clint and Tony left to get some air last night and I—“

“Oh, come on, Brucie. Really?” Carbonell groaned, rolling his eyes and turning towards Banner. “You’re rolling on us? Really?”

“I’m not rolling on anyone. I just—“

“Tony, I think you just gave yourself away by accusing Bruce of ratting us out,” Barton chimed in.

A small, half-amused smile tugged at the corner of Phil’s mouth as he watched the three men. He’d already known who’d been behind it, but it was always nice to get confirmation without any hassles.

“Banner,” Phil finally spoke up, silencing the Lieutenants. “Where were you last night?”

“In my bunk,” answered Banner, his tone short and sharp. “Sleeping.”

Phil nodded. “You said Barton and Carbonell left the barracks? Why?”

This time Barton spoke up. “I needed some air. Couldn’t sleep. So I went for a walk, and Tony went with me. Banner had nothing to do with anything. He stayed behind and went back to sleep. Just me and Tony went out.”

“Is this true, Carbonell?” Phil looked back to the mechanic and waited.

It took a moment, but he finally got an answer. “Yeah. It’s true. Bruce didn’t do anything.”

Phil sighed and dismissed Banner with a nod and wave towards the door. He waited until Banner was gone before he let his arms drop, pushing himself off the edge of his desk and walking over to his coffee pot. It was still too damned early to be dealing with this, and contrary to popular belief, Phil really wasn’t much of a morning person either, despite being career Army and having practically grown up waking at dawn.

Phil didn’t say anything to either one of them while he made himself a cup of coffee and took a long sip. It wasn’t that he was trying to make them wait and sweat – though that was a perk – he just knew he was going to need caffeine for the conversation ahead. Once his mug was half empty, he turned back to the pair.

“Alright. Let’s hear it. Why did you glue Ward’s boots to the floor?”

Barton and Carbonell exchanged glances. Neither seemed in any hurry to answer him.

“The longer you keep me waiting, the more likely you’ll find yourselves digging a new latrine—“

Carbonell stepped forward, cutting Phil off. “Barton needed to do something to take his mind off some stupid nightmare, and I figured gluing Ward’s boots to the floor was a better way for him to take out his frustrations for the plane Ward assigned him than letting him go and deck him.”

“Except,” Phil interjected, “as I explained to Lieutenant Barton already, Ward didn’t assign him that plane. I did.”

Carbonell’s jaw dropped minutely as he turned his dark eyes on Barton. “You didn’t tell me that.”

“Yeah, well,” Barton shrugged, finally letting his own arms come down from behind his back. “It was still pretty satisfying, so…” he trailed off with an unapologetic smirk on his lips. “Better we glued Ward’s boots to the floor than Coulson’s blankets to the cot?”

“Right. Yeah. Definitely better.” Carbonell agreed with a nod before turning back to Phil and holding his hand outstretched as he motioned towards him. “See? It could have been worse. Had I known you were the one who’d assigned him the plane, you could have woken up with your sheets glued to your cot.”

Phil’s small, amused smile actually grew a bit at that, though he tried to hide it behind his coffee cup while he shook his head. “No, I wouldn’t have.”

“You’re right. You probably wouldn’t have. But the thought _definitely_ would have crossed my mind, at least.” Carbonell gave a small headshake and shrug, his hands slipping into his khaki slacks’ pockets.

Setting his mug down, Phil sighed in an attempt to keep back a yawn. He reached up to pinch the bridge of his nose while he tried to decide what to do with the pair, because there was no way he could let them get away with their prank. There were hundreds of things Phil could think of that needed to be done around the camp that could serve as decent enough punishment, but only one thing seemed to stick out the most in his mind.

He let his hand drop and his arms fold back across his chest. “I can’t let you go free, you know this. Had your prank not resulted in Ward getting hurt, I might have looked the other way. But he did, and if I don’t do something about it, he will. And believe me, the man in charge above me would not let you go easily.”

Barton and Carbonell shared glances again before looking back to Phil. Barton, who’d been fairly quiet through most of their talk, finally cleared his throat.

“So, what are you going to do?”

Phil sighed again and shook his head. “I’m assigning you both to inventory and organize the supply hut, and when you're finished with that, you're to formally apologize to Lieutenant Ward as well as pay for the boots you destroyed. Are we clear?”

“Yes, sir,” their response was quiet and petulant, like two schoolboys who were in trouble with the principal. Again.

Nodding silently, Phil motioned for them to leave. “You’re dismissed. Go find Private MacAvoy for inventory sheets and pens.”

The pair sulked as they turned towards to door with their heads low and hands stuffed in their pockets.

“And gentlemen,” Phil called after them, “no more gluing people’s boots to the floor.”

 


	5. Chapter 5

 

June 1943

Clint had been doing his best for the past few weeks to keep his nose clean. He’d filed his flight logs when he was supposed to (not that he’d gotten to go out much), and even played nice with the other boys. Including Ward.

The sneezing powder in Ward’s crusher had been all Tony. Every bit.

That was Clint’s story and he was sticking to it.

All this “being good” was starting to make Clint go a little stir crazy, though. He had to do something to pass the time. Three weeks of being on his best behavior? That had to have earned him the right to blow off a little steam and play around a bit. Right?

Of course, it was kind of nice to not be in trouble for a change. Especially when it meant he got kind little smiles from Coulson, and, well, Clint didn’t want to say _special_ treatment, but maybe that was the only way to say it. Coulson oftentimes ate his meals with Clint, especially if Clint was eating on his own. Which, after their second week there, became pretty damn often, what with Tony and Bruce off doing whatever it was they did when he wasn’t around.

On top of that though, and despite his meager ranking, Coulson would sometimes confide in Clint. Had even started to ask his opinions or thoughts on certain aspects of whatever mission they’d just come back from. Clint was full of opinions and ideas about their missions.

It was… _nice_.

And nice was made even better when Coulson pulled Clint aside after supper a few nights ago and told him, before anyone else, that he was going to be gone for a couple of days.

“Nothing major,” Coulson explained as they made the rounds around the camp. “I just need to report to the 8th Air Force Command HQ for a mandatory meeting. Ward will be in charge, so I would appreciate it if you and Carbonell kept yourselves out of trouble. Please?”

Well, how was Clint supposed to say no to that? Coulson had asked so nicely that Clint felt morally obligated to not let him down.

And so far, he hadn’t. At least, he didn’t think he had. For the most part he and Tony were behaving. Kind of. Of course, Lieutenant Richards was keeping Tony so busy that the duo hardly had time to get themselves into any kind of trouble. And when Tony wasn’t busy helping Richards, he was hidden away somewhere with Bruce.

Clint hadn’t ever caught them doing anything. Not yet, anyway. Though, he had caught sight of a mighty powerful bruise just poking out of the top of Bruce’s collar one day. The wicked shade of crimson Bruce turned when Clint asked him about it was all the confirmation he needed to know that things were moving right along between them. Clint was almost jealous.

Almost.

Maybe a little more than almost.

Which was how he found himself out after dark, three days after Coulson had left.

Really, though, Clint wasn’t going out looking for trouble that night. It was just one of the first really nice nights they’d had in over a week and Clint was itching to go for a walk. The woods around the barracks were nice for night walks, especially when the moon was full in the sky and it shone down through the leaves like little sparkling stars. Clint was four thousand miles from home, but when he wandered through the woods in the dark, it didn’t seem quite so far away. He just maybe wished he had Coulson to go walking with him.

It wasn’t like he and Coulson had made it a nightly ritual to take a walk around the camp or anything, it was just, well, they’d done it maybe twice a week for the past couple of weeks. Just the two of them after supper. It was always nice getting to spend those moments with him, talking about nothing in particular – usually talking about planes and missions, or the occasional laugh about a couple who thought they were being sneaky but weren’t. It was nice in those moments to pretend that maybe they weren’t in the middle of a war, on a little island so far from the lives they’d once known. Clint could pretend, just for a little while, that they were just two friends out for a stroll back home.

Each time Clint would get back to his barracks and climb into bed, it’d be with a small, dopey smile on his face, and sleep would come just a little bit easier those nights, the sound of Coulson’s voice still bouncing pleasantly around in his head.

All right, so Clint was off his rocker. So he missed having someone warm and comfortable to curl up with at night a little bit more than he wanted to admit. So what? And maybe there was a part of him that wished he had someone – definitely no one in particular -- to burn off excess energy with, who would run their fingers through his hair and keep him right at the brink until neither of them could stand it any longer. He was a grown adult, and far from home. He was free to go take care of whatever stray urges happened to spring up along the way; Clint just...didn’t want to.

That didn’t mean he didn’t think about it though. Didn’t imagine blue eyes and a kind smile searing into his very soul. A soft laugh breathed against his ear as he—

 _Dammit Clint, get your head together_!

Clint tilted his head back as he walked and just stared up at the blanket of leaves above his head, mentally running through pre-flight checklists to keep his brain from running off in directions he didn’t want it to go. It was only going to drive him insane if he let it go shooting off like it was.

Still, even while he walked--and ran--through checklists in his head, he could still hear the breathy laugh. A quiet murmur of pleasure.

God! Maybe he really should just head into town and find the first warm, willing body and hop into bed with them! He was starting to hear things! He’d really started to go wacky if he was hearing things even when he hadn’t been thinking about them! It happened to folks, after all. He’d known a guy back home who had lit his whole place on fire because a voice in his head had told him to and wouldn’t leave him alone until he’d done it.

Unlike Wacky Harry though, Clint wasn’t hearing little voices. These were grown voices. And definitely male. And…familiar.

Pausing mid-step, Clint’s eyes opened wider when he heard it. The gasped moan of a name.

“ _Bucky_ …” the end vowel extended into a desperate whine.

He glanced around, trying to figure out where the voices were coming from. About fifteen feet ahead of him there was a small stone wall. All that remained of an old barn or something. Quiet as he could, Clint snuck his way closer, keeping down low and mindful of his feet so he didn’t step on any twigs and scare them away. As if they were deer or something.

Ducking down behind the wall, Clint stuffed his fist in his mouth to muffle his laughter. On the other side of the wall, he could clearly make out – okay, no, wrong choice of words – could clearly _hear_ the gasps and quiet moans. Each name murmured on the wind clear as day.

“ _Bucky_.”

Captain Bucky Barnes. Had to be. There was no one else that went by that name on the base.

“ _Stevie_ …”

Clint fought not to bust up laughing. _Stevie_? Really?! Steve and Bucky, running off to hide and screw in the woods. Oh this was too much. Clint couldn’t sit on this knowledge alone. It was too precious and perfect.

He rushed back to camp as quickly and quietly as he could, darting in and out of groups until he found Tony stretched out on the wing of the bomber he’d been working on. He looked like he was asleep, but Clint didn’t care. Tony had to see this. It was too good for him to miss out on!

Climbing up the side, Clint dropped to shake at his shoulder.

“Tony! Tony, wake up! Wake up! C’mon! You gotta see this!”

Startled, Tony flailed and rolled out of Clint’s grasp. His arms and legs going every direction as he nearly rolled right off the edge of the wing. His fingers catching a ridge just in time to stop himself.

“What the hell?” he gasped, eyes wide and breathing labored as he stared at his friend. “What the fuck is your problem, Barton? Don’t you know not to wake someone up when he’s sleeping? It’s bad luck!”

Clint grinned as he stood up straight and rocked back on his heels. “I’ll take my chances. Besides, thought you might like to see what I found in the woods.”

Tony groaned and ran his hand through his hair groggily. Which made him whine again when he remembered his hand was covered in grease which was now all through his hair. With a sigh, Tony yanked a rag from his pocket and wiped his hands as he glared at Clint.

“Unless it’s a stash of moolah, I’m not interested.”

“No?”

“No.”

“Not even if it were Captains Rogers and Barnes hiding off somewhere and calling each other adorable-as-hell pet names?”

That brought Tony’s attention around real quick. Clint grinned, already bouncing on his toes and ready to go.

“Rogers and Barnes?” Tony asked, making sure he’d heard right.

“Yup. Or as Barnes likes to call him,” Clint put a hand to his chest and sighed dreamily, “ _Steeviee_ …”

Tony burst out laughing, scrambling to climb down off the wing of the plane. “Alright! You got me! I’m interested!”

Grinning and with a single clap of his hands, Clint sprung into action to follow Tony down and lead him across camp.

* * *

 

Tony could only listen to the pair for about thirty seconds before he had to scramble away to a safe distance and start laughing. Doubled over. Damn near ready to hit the ground and start rolling with laughter.

That didn’t mean Clint was innocent though. Oh no. No, Clint was leaned up against a tree, rubbing the heels of his hands into his eyes and laughing right along with Tony.

“’Oh…oh, _Stevie_ …’” Clint laughed as he hunched forward to brace his hands on his knees. “’Oh Stevie, you’re so big and _strong_!’”

Tony gasped harder, waving his arms frantically at Clint to try and make him stop. He’d stopped making sounds by now and could only manage the shaking motions of laughter as he tried to catch his breath.

Clint laughed a bit harder as he watched Tony struggling to breathe.

“’ _Kiss me, Stevie_!’”

Grabbing a rock off the ground, Tony threw it blindly at Clint. It nicked off the side of the tree just shy of Clint’s head and bounced off into the shrubbery behind him. They stood there, both trying to get the air moving back in their lungs without busting out laughing all over again. It wasn’t easy.

When they were finally mostly in control of their breathing again, Tony took a deep breath and straightened up. He glanced to Clint, then off towards the woods again and choked back another bubble of laughter.

“That,” he laughed, shaking his head, “that was…they were _definitely_ not leaving enough space for Jesus!”

Clint shook his head and pulled in another lungful of air. “No, no they weren’t. We should,” he paused and swallowed a chuckle, “we should remind them that they’re supposed to do that.”

“They really need to cool down a little bit.” Tony mused as he turned his eyes towards the water pump a few dozen steps away, a bucket sitting next to it forlornly.

Following his gaze, Clint grinned wickedly. Oh, if Tony was thinking what Clint was thinking…

“I feel it’s our responsibility,” he answered with a nod, looking back to Tony. Clint put up as serious of a face as he could as he started towards the bucket. “Our _duty_ even, to remind them of the dangers of being out without a chaperone.”

“They definitely should have one,” agreed Tony as he fell into step right alongside him. “Think of poor Stevie’s virtue at risk if he gives into the wiles of Bucky’s flattery!”

“Stevie is one star-spangled suit away from being Uncle Sam’s son. We can’t have his honor taken from him in the heat of a wartime fling.” Clint shook his head and grabbed the bucket. “It can’t be helped.”

Tony stood at the pump, fingers wrapped around the handle. “It’s our duty to defend Stevie’s, and the Country’s, honor.”

“Right.”

“Right.”

With a final decisive nod to each other, the water splashed into the bucket and gurgled its way quickly to the top.

* * *

 

“You’re sloshing it all over!”

“I am not!”

“There’s not going to be any water left by the time we get there!”

“Will ya shuddup before they hear us!” Clint growled as they carefully made their way back into the woods. The bucket held between them as they walked.

Tony rolled his eyes and grumbled under his breath as they finally made it back to the wall. The bucket only about three-quarters of the way full now. Gently as they could, they lowered it to the ground and dared a peek over the top of the wall. Bucky and Steve were still sitting on the other side, Bucky in Steve’s lap and working very hard to put a nice claim on Steve’s collarbone. Their shirts were open and half off their shoulders as hands roamed across the expanse of bare skin.

Bucky groaned into Steve’s shoulder as he rocked his hips against Steve’s. A silent gasp fell from Steve, his head tilted back and eyes closed in pleasure. He rolled his hips up and reached to draw Bucky back up to his mouth, smashing their lips together in a crushing and possessive kiss.

Dropping back down to crouch beside the bucket, Clint rolled his lips between his teeth to keep from laughing. Tony, on the other hand, stayed up for another moment longer before he fell back down into place on the other side of Clint.

“Ya know,” he whispered, one dark eyebrow raised, “maybe it’s _Bucky_ ’s honor we need to defend?”

Clint snorted softly and shoved at Tony’s shoulder before motioning to the bucket.

“Just shut up and grab your side,” Clint whispered back.

Together, and as silently as possible, they stood and moved to settle the bucket on top of the wall. Clint was never so grateful for moss growing across stones as he was right then. The added padding of the greenery helped to keep the metal from scraping across rock and giving them away.

Each with one hand on the rim of the bucket, the other on the bottom, Clint and Tony craned their necks over the edge of the wall once more. For a brief moment, Clint almost felt bad for what they were going to do. But it was only a second.

Clint looked across the bucket to Tony, silently counting.

 _One…two…three_!

“SAVE SPACE FOR JESUS!” Tony hollered as the bucket tipped.

Water splashed in every direction as it poured down on Steve and Bucky’s heads. Their screams of surprise filling the woods while they jumped apart, too late to be saved from the water soaking them nearly head to toe.

Clint threw the bucket behind him as he darted around the side of the wall. “RUN FOR IT, STEVIE! BEFORE HE STEALS YOUR HONOR!”

Steve sputtered and stammered as he swiped at the water running down his face. With his golden-blond hair hanging down all sopping wet, and the look of confused betrayal written all over his expression, he definitely looked like a Golden Retriever.

A very wet and betrayed Golden Retriever.

In front of him, Bucky had stumbled to his feet and was desperately trying to get his slacks done up again. His bright eyes flashed with fire and darkness when he finally caught sight of Clint.

“BARTON!” He screamed. His dark hair hanging wet in front of his eyes. “I’m going to KILL YOU!”

Clint’s eyes went wide. Suddenly, Clint had a pretty good idea how the guys who waved red sheets in front of angry bulls felt.

“Uh-oh.”

Turning, Clint slipped on the damp grass, his boots sliding out from under him as he scrambled to get away. “Run, Tony! Run!”

A terrified shriek went up as Tony bolted past Clint, Steve hot on his trail. Boots still slipping across the grass, Clint ran full tilt to try and catch up, and escape the angry bees they’d just riled up.

* * *

 

The woods behind the barracks were filled with screams and hollers for over an hour. And when Clint and Tony finally stumbled their way back to their own barracks, soaked to the bone and looking very much like drowned rats, neither said a word. Clint’s left eye was swollen and turning purple, blood still sticky under his nose as he removed his waterlogged clothes.

It was too much effort to get dried off, so Clint didn’t even bother to try before he slipped bare into his bed. He laid there on his side for a moment, listening as Tony followed his example. The air was still charged with adrenaline from their chase, but it was slowly fading. Everything was a peaceful quiet around them, which helped to calm Clint’s still racing heart.

From the other side of the room, Tony stifled a laugh.

“ _Oh, Steeeevieee_!”

Without looking, Clint grabbed a wet sock off the floor and threw it through the dark at Tony, even though he was trying hard not to start laughing over the whole thing all over again, himself. The sock landed with a soggy smack, pulling a disgusted groan from Tony.

Clint closed his eyes, a tight-lipped smile on his face, as he softly chuckled himself to sleep.

* * *

 

Two days later found Clint laying out on a makeshift lounge chair in the middle of the field nestled between their three runways, his head tilted back and shirt missing, getting as much of a tan as he possibly could. It was his day off from flying surveillance around their base, and he was having quite a bit of fun holding up signs with scribbled numbers on them every time one of their planes tried to scare him off his lounge chair. _6.0, 7.5, 5.0, 8.75_. No sign went over 8.75.

When he wasn’t judging his friends on their poor attacks and dive bombing techniques, Clint dozed lazily. It was a good day for it. At least, it was until the sounds of approaching engines filled the air. No early warning siren though, no one scrambling for their planes yet…

Across the camp, a cry went up.

“Friendlies! Hey! Hey, it’s bombers!”

Sitting up, one leg on either side of the lounger, Clint nudged his sunglasses down the bridge of his nose to watch. He remembered hearing earlier in the week, before Coulson had gone off to HQ, about how they were _finally_ going to be getting a couple of new bomber planes in soon. ‘Soon’ had apparently just arrived.

Clint didn’t bother pulling his undershirt back on, or fixing the button on his shorts, as he stood up and made his way closer to the north/south runway to watch the planes come in. They weren’t brand new off the line, but they were newer than the ones Steve and Bucky had to fly every week. Clint gave them a week before they were getting their ass prints all over the damn things.

The others that had been lounging around the base all came running once the bombers had landed and taxied off into the grass. Everyone talked and cheered all at once like some big celebrity had just shown up. Clint loved planes, don’t get him wrong, but these guys were all practically wetting themselves trying to get at the hatch.

Even after the hatches on both the new Marauder and A-20 Boston opened and the crews stepped out, Clint didn’t understand what the big deal was.

It wasn’t until the first crewman took their helmet off and a shock of long, bright blond hair, pulled back into a tight French braid fell out that Clint understood. Dames.

The WASPs had arrived and brought a couple of new planes along with them.

Clint stayed back, his arms folded over his chest while the rest of the guys made fools of themselves. The Women Airforce Service Pilots, or WASPs as they were more affectionately called, were a great bunch of brave souls, but Clint never saw what all the fuss was about with them. After all, plenty of women back in the States were doing jobs everyone always thought only a man could do, so why was everyone falling over themselves about a group of gals who could fly planes?

Aside from the fact the WASPs were the first to fly the B-29 Superfortress and shamed an entire male squadron that had been too afraid to fly it. That, Clint admitted, was pretty damn impressive.

Ward shoved his way through the crowd, Fitz trailing right behind him, and came to a stop in front of one of the women. Clint could only hear bits and pieces of what they were saying over the sounds of the men striking up conversations while trying to pull the women off to secluded areas for some alone time. The names the blond – Carol Danvers, Clint thought he heard her say – was listing off didn’t mean a thing to him. Plus, from the looks of it, everyone was already spoken for.

With an uninterested shrug, he turned to start back for his lounge chair. He’d only gone two steps when he heard it. An all-too-familiar laugh, followed by a rough-but-sweet female voice.

“What’s the matter, Sport? You too good to say hello, now?”

Suddenly Clint forgot how to walk as he stumbled to a stop, wide-eyed and barely breathing.

Oh this was not good.

 


	6. Chapter 6

 

Clint stood completely still and stared forward, eyes locked on the control tower. It couldn’t be. He’d traveled nearly four thousand miles from Waverly, there was no possible way that it could be. Surely the fates didn’t hate him that badly, did they? Oh, who was he kidding? Of course they did.

Behind him, heavy boots come to a stop, followed by a second pair. Lang’s voice joining the mix in the smoothest tone he could muster. Clint wanted to laugh at him. Or warn him to turn and run the other way as fast as he could. Whichever.

“Say, doll face,” Lang cooed, “how about you let me buy you a drink?”

“Sorry, flyboy,” the woman answered, amusement clear in her voice. “You’re gonna have to ask my _husband_ about that first.”

Clint flinched. Noticeably.

Slowly turning around, he took a deep breath and did his best to look bored with the whole situation. Even if his heart was currently trying to climb its way up his throat. His arms folded over his bare chest, head slightly tilted to the side, he nudged his sunglasses down just enough to look over the top of them and catch the look of disbelief that crossed Lang’s face. Yeah, Clint was used to that look whenever people heard that.

“ _Husband_?” Exclaimed Lang, looking back and forth between the woman and Clint.

Clint shook his head.

“ _Ex_ -husband,” he leveled his sights back on the woman with barely more than a quirk to his lips. “I seem to remember you divorcing me, Bobbi. Wasn’t that what I signed for before I left for basic?”

Bobbi rolled her eyes, deftly swiping a cluster of blond hair off her forehead with the back of her gloved hand. “Aw, now, you’re not still sore over that, are you?”

“Well, ya did take everything I owned in the process, so…”

“Now whose fault is that? You should have read what you were signing.”

It was Clint’s turn to roll his eyes and huff. “I would have, if you hadn’t given it to me right before I needed to board my train.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Clint saw Lang slowly inch away from them. There was a bit of fear on the Sergeant’s face that was almost laughable. Funny, it was the same look Clint slightly felt inside right then. He wished he could slink away unnoticed, too.

Like a cat stalking her prey, Bobbi Morse stepped closer to Clint. The woman was gorgeous, you’d have to be blind not to think so. Even dressed up like one of the flyboys. What with those brown bomber boots she had on, the cuffs of her olive drab flight suit tucked securely into the boots. She even had a leather bombardier’s jacket, complete with gloves and a parachute. But despite the get-up – or maybe even because of it – she was still just as stunning as he remembered her.

If Bobbi were to let her hair down out of the carefully-styled, curled up-do she was required to wear, Clint was certain her blond hair would be just as silky as he remembered it being, and that it would reach down past her shoulders, just like it used to. He also knew what was hiding under the oh-so-unflattering flight suit and bomber’s jacket. It was a body with curves in all the right places and made for sin. One that drove all the boys wild.

No, it shouldn’t have surprised Clint one bit to find out she’d joined up with the WASP program. Bobbi never was like the other girls back home. Always said she had more fun showing the fellas up than she did sitting around gossiping with the other dames.

With Bobbi standing so close to him now, Clint could see the mischief and amusement sparkling in her blue eyes. He tried not to audibly gulp, but the way the corner of Bobbi’s perfectly-rouged mouth quirked up clued him in on how badly that had failed. At least she wasn’t saying anything about the killer shiner he was still sporting behind his sunglasses. That was a plus.

“Say, now don’t be like that. Everything’s just like you left it. Half-finished and falling to pieces. My mother’s making sure no one gets their fingers on the deeds.”

“Your mother?” Clint’s eyebrows shot to his hairline and he tried not to flinch in pain. Well, wasn’t that just swell? Clearly, fate hated him even more than he thought. With his stomach tied up in knots, he ran a hand down his face and groaned, nodding. “Oh, well, that makes me feel tons better about it now. She always did hate me. What, she waitin’ for me to get home before lighting the place on fire or something? Put a hex on it so it falls down on top of me soon as I walk in the door?”

Clint mentally flinched as Bobbi’s eyes flashed with anger. God knew he loved Bobbi, but damn he never could keep his mouth shut.

Frown firmly in place, Bobbi jabbed a perfectly sculpted fingernail right into Clint’s bare chest, hard enough to leave a sharp indent. “If you want the place back, all you gotta do is ask. You don’t have to be a jackass about it.”

“All right, fine. Bobbi, darling, will you please let me have my things back once I get back home?”

“No.”

“Dammit, Bobbi!”

God, what he wouldn’t give to wipe that smug smirk right off her face! Raking a hand through his hair, Clint turned away before he could do something stupid. Like ring her neck.

His eyes caught the glimmer of the planes and widened as a plan sprang to mind. He snapped once and spun back around to face her. Oh, yes, he’d get his things back! Clint knew just how to do it!

“I’ll race ya for ‘em.”

Bobbi blinked twice, then twice more.

“You’ll what?” The words were slow and drawn, calculated even. Like she wasn’t quite sure she’d heard him right.

Smirking, Clint nodded and folded his arms back across his chest again. “You heard me. I’ll race ya for my stuff back. You’re not scared of a little air race, are ya?”

By this time a small group had gathered around, some of the other women pilots standing at Bobbi’s back. No doubt ready to spring in for support should she need it. She wouldn’t, though. Clint was sure of it. There was no way Bobbi would turn down a chance to try and do something better than Clint. Hell, that’s what most of their relationship had been like!

A quiet murmur went up from the crowd as Bobbi and Clint stared each other down. Until, after a nudge and nod from one of the women behind her, Bobbi tilted her chin and nodded.

“All right, Sport. What’s the stakes?”

Success!

Clint grinned and dropped his arms back down to rest his hands on his hips.

“Stakes are, if I win, you have to promise to get my stuff signed back over to me soon as I get back to the States. _And_ , you go with me for drinks tonight.”

Bobbi pursed her lips for a moment, a single thin eyebrow quirked in amusement as she popped her hip out some. “And if I win?”

“If you win?” Clint parroted back. “If you win, Birdie, you can do whatever you want to my place. And you allow me the privilege of taking you and your lovely friends out for drinks tonight.”

The women behind Bobbi all grinned and nudged each other while Bobbi pretended to think about it. She glanced over her shoulder back to her crewmates, shrugging in an Eh-why-not sort of way to their wide sparkling eyes and nodding heads. They all looked ridiculous, but Clint wasn’t about to say that out loud.

When Bobbi turned her head back to Clint, she nodded. “All right. Deal. What are we flying?”

“We’ll take up the P-51s. You know how to fly those, right?”

“Only with my eyes closed.”

Clint smirked at her boisterous quip and nodded. “Good. I just wanted to make sure I wasn’t putting you at more of a disadvantage than you’re already at.”

A low chorus of ‘Oooooo’s went up at that and had the guys laughing and nudging each other with their elbows. The women only stared.

“What’s my disadvantage?” questioned Bobbi.

“Well, for one, I happen to fly these babies every day, so I know how to handle them better. And for two, well…” Clint trailed off with a smirk as he waved his hand up and down in front of her, pausing to make a circular motion around her chest.

Bobbi’s jaw twitched and squared, her eyes narrowing. “Why don’t you put some damned clothes on and fly, instead of standing here flappin’ your lips?”

“My, but you’re still testy when you feel threatened, ain’t’cha?”

The glare Bobbi gave as she shoved past him was enough to make a lesser man instantly regret all his life choices. But not Clint. If anything, it just made him grin all the brighter and put a little more spring to his step.

Like the Red Sea for Moses, the crowd surrounding them parted and fell into step alongside them. The guys in Clint’s squadron were already pulling money from their pockets and laying down bets, even while the women they’d been hoping to steal a few minutes in the dark with did their best to defend their friend. It was a cacophony of voices, each one talking over the other and laughing.

Clint and Bobbi breezed by Ward, not even casting him a second glance as he made a sound of protest. Ward would probably make sure Clint got some kind of reprimand for what he was about to do, but Clint wasn’t overly worried. Coulson liked him, and so long as no one got hurt – and Clint was sure no one would – then where was the harm in a little bit of friendly competition between pilots? The guys would race each other all the time as practice.

Coming up to their planes, Clint caught sight of Bruce and Tony and waved them over.

“Tony! Grab me a spare flight suit, will ya?” he called before they could get much closer. Tony reversed course and headed back to the maintenance hangar to grab one of the spares they kept around to work in.

Clint nodded to Bobbi as Bruce got closer. “Bobbi, Bruce. Bruce, Bobbi.” The introduction was short and sweet. “Bobbi’s gonna borrow your plane for just a few minutes, Bruce. She promises to bring it back in one piece.”

“She…” Bruce stared at them both for a minute as if Clint had lost his mind. He blinked and shook his head, confusion written all over his face. “She’s going to borrow my plane? Why?”

“Just a little race around the block,” Clint slapped Bruce’s shoulder and stepped aside once Tony showed up with the flight suit. “We’ll be back before you know it.”

“I don’t know if that’s such a good idea,” Bruce frowned, scrubbing a hand through his dark curls before quickly turning back to Bobbi. “No offense, ma’am. I know you’re a pilot and all, I just…”

Bobbi shook her head, already pulling her gloves and parachute back on with a small smile. “Don’t worry, Lieutenant. Like Clint said, I’ll bring your plane back without a scratch.”

Hopping and tugging the flight suit on over his boots and shorts, Clint’s grin grew all the more impish. It’d been since forever since he last got to have an honest-to-God race, and even though it wasn’t going to be the same as the ones back home, it was still going to be fun. Especially since he was racing against his ex-wife again.

“Okay, so,” Clint shrugged his arms through the sleeves and adjusted the shoulders some, “runway’s big enough for two Mustangs to take off at once. We’ll take off down the main runway, go up, follow Roman Road here,” he waved to the main road just north of the base, “and head east towards Peterborough. A perimeter run around those woods over there.”

Clint glanced over his shoulder to where St. John’s Wood was located and looked back to Bobbi. “Just follow it all the way around. First one to cross back over Roman Road and do a victory roll wins.”

Bobbi only nodded as she pulled herself up into the cockpit of the P-51. “Whatever you say, Sport. Let’s just get this going, huh?”

“I’ve missed your fight, Birdie. I really have.” Clint teased as he spun on his heel and ducked under Baby’s nose. He’d just pulled himself up onto the wing when Ward and Fitz caught up to them. Clint pretended he didn’t see them while he finished zipping up his flight suit and reached into the cockpit for his helmet.

“Hold it, Barton. You’re not taking these planes anywhere.” Ward stood in front of Clint’s plane with his arms folded over his chest, looking stern. Or at least trying to. It was hard to take him seriously with Fitz following him everywhere.

“Yeah,” Fitz piped up, trying to mimic Ward’s stance. “It’s against regulations to take an aircraft up without permission.”

“Which you are required to get from your commanding officer, which right now would be me.”

Clint tugged his helmet down over his ears as he stood on his parachute pack. He looked down at them in confusion for a minute before shaking his head. He'd promised Coulson he was going to behave, and not give Ward much trouble while he was in charge while Coulson was gone, but, it just rubbed Clint the wrong way. There were tons of other guys on base who outranked Ward and should have been put in charge. As much as he didn't want to break his word, Clint couldn't turn down this chance. “Sorry, Ward. I couldn’t hear you. Could you tell me about it when I get back?”

Ward’s jaw worked as bright red rose up on his cheeks. “Lieutenant, exit that airplane immediately, or I’ll make sure you’re put on report!”

For a second it seemed like Clint would get out of the plane. He’d pushed himself back up to a standing position so he could see over the nose of his plane, his hands gripping the top of the front windshield, and looked back down to Ward and Fitz like he was surprised to see them still there. Still staring at them, Clint motioned for Tony to be ready to pull the wheel chocks from his tires.

“You two might wanna move! This propeller spins really fast!” He dropped back down into the cockpit, flipping switches as he went.

Like a flash, Tony was right there, shouldering his way past Ward and Fitz to get at the wheel chock, standing ready for when Clint gave the signal. At the next plane over, Bucky was doing the same, a wicked little smile on his face. Unlike some of the other planes fighting out there, the P-51 Mustang didn’t require a lineman up front to give the propeller a few cursory spins to prime up the cylinders. It had an automatic pressure manifold that drew straight from the throttle. Which meant the engine would turn over just like a car without any outside assistance, and the propeller would begin spinning instantly. Slowly at first, of course, until the pilot increased the throttle to get the engine warmed up.

Ward took a few steps back, Fitz stumbling after him. He stared at Clint’s plane before he glanced to where Bobbi was also preparing for take-off. Gaping like a fish, he shook his head. “Lieutenant Barton! I’ll call the MP’s if you don’t—“

“CLEAR PROP!” Clint’s voice bellowed out from the cockpit, easily drowning out Ward. The call was echoed back by Tony as he stooped down to grab the rope for the wheel chock. The small triangular blocks, connected by a piece of rope, were in place on either side of both main wheels to help keep the plane from rolling forwards or backwards while the engine was running. Very necessary to ensure no one was hurt accidentally. Or at least not as often.

The Mustang roared to life, followed closely by the second. Clint let the engine idle for a moment before he throttled up to increase the ram. With the engine warmed up and ready, he motioned with both hands -- sideways thumbs-up, with the thumbs pointing towards the outside -- for the wheel chock to be pulled.  With the blocks pulled from their wheels, and the brakes disengaged, the pair slowly started rolling towards the runway. Ward and Fitz scrambled out of the way, Ward spitting nails as he yelled uselessly after them.

“Still out looking for trouble, ay Clint?” Bobbi’s voice crackled in Clint’s ear as he bounced and rattled his way out to the main runway. He could hear the smile in her voice and couldn’t stop the one that was growing across his own face.

Tilting his head enough to talk into the mask hanging down at the side of his helmet, Clint chuckled. “Nah, I’m not lookin’ for trouble. It just sorta follows me around.”

“Uh-huh,” came Bobbi’s unconvinced response. “Then let me guess. You got that shiner by walking into a door. Right?”

Clint huffed softly as he gave a half-smile and shook his head. Well, at least she waited until they weren’t surrounded by people to tease him about it.

Reaching the west end of the runway, the Mustangs turned in perfect synchronization and paused to do final pre-flight checks. Clint pulled his mask closer to his mouth and called for clearance from the tower.

“Tower, P-51 Mustang Hawkeye, holding at main runway. Request permission for take-off.”

There was moment’s hesitation before the slightly nervous voice of the poor airman on duty replied. “Negative, Hawkeye. You do not have permission for take-off. Taxi back to the flight line and await further instruction.”

Clint quirked a brow and glanced to his right. Across the wings and over to where Bobbi sat staring back at him. He rolled his eyes at her amused stare and shook his head, leaning in towards his mask again.

“Tower,” He repeated, slower this time. “This is P-51 Mustang Hawkeye. I’m holding at main runway and I’d like to take off. Please?”

“I’m sorry, Hawkeye,” the airman – Cameron, Clint thought his name was. Little guy, curly hair, usually pretty decent, even if he was maybe a little awkward at times – answered. He almost sounded like he was pleading with Clint. The poor kid. “Lieutenant Ward’s orders. You and the other Mustang aren’t allowed to take—“

Clint coughed, cleared his throat and sniffled loudly, cutting Cameron off. One hand on the throttle, he glanced across to Bobbi again and held his other hand up for her to wait.

“Tower, I seem to,” Clint made a horrible crackling noise, “—eadset. Didn’t quite –“ another crackle sound, “—soon.”

“What? No. Hawkeye, you…you can’t take off! Ward—“

“Birdie,” Clint called over his headset as he pushed the throttle forward and started to roll. “We’ve been cleared for take-off. Catch me if you can.”

Without another word, Clint started off down the runway, ignoring the cries of dismay from Cameron in the control tower. He pushed the Mustang faster and faster, knowing instantly the moment his tail wheel came off the ground and he was running on his main landing gear. Out of the corner of his eye he could see Bobbi bouncing just far enough behind him that they wouldn’t run into each other. So long as Clint could keep her back there, everything would be golden.

The end of the runway rushed closer, closer. Clint pulled back on the cyclic until the runway fell further and further away from him. His wheels up, Clint gave a whoop of triumph as he throttled up and tore off like a bat out of hell down along the road. He kept himself flying low, only a few hundred feet off the ground, while the shadow of Bobbi’s plane danced above him.

Clint laughed as he swooped out from under her, rose to her height and dove back down again, buzzing the roof of a car just as he rounded the first corner, barely passing between the trees as he flew on his wingtip. The pair was off down a short straight way, diving in and out of the shadows. They followed the natural curve of the tree line as they flew stacked, their noses even, with Clint down low and Bobbi up high. It only took them a few minutes to reach the second turn.

Again, Clint took it sharp, slipping between the trees on his side and able to come back up ahead of Bobbi. This was what Clint lived for. The freedom and rush of adrenaline that he got from flying fast and loose. Without anyone to give him commands and orders to follow. There weren’t many things that Clint thought he was particularly good at, but flying? Oh baby, he was damn sure he was made to fly.

He also had a slight advantage over Bobbi, more than what he’d pointed out on the ground. Clint had flown around those woods a dozen or more times. He knew exactly where and when the tree line ended, which he took advantage of when they reached the third turn. The straight way between the second and third turns was much shorter than what they’d just come off of, and with that in mind Clint was able to pull in tight to make it, while Bobbi overshot it by a good two hundred feet or so.

She corrected it fast enough, pulling her plane up and around, and managed to catch up to Clint before Clint realized she had. They were wingtip to wingtip for a few hundred feet before a narrow passage where the trees canopied the road on either side came into view. There wasn’t enough room for them to make it through side by side like they were. One of them was going to have to either pull back, drop down, or pull off all together and go around the outcrop on the outside.

Clint wasn’t planning to do any of the above. He kept his plane steady, his eyes glued on the trees and the space available between them. Just faintly he could hear Bobbi start to mutter under her breath and he could almost see her tensing up. When she inched forward, Clint inched forward. Nose to nose. Until the last possible second when Bobbi cursed a blue streak and throttled back to pull behind and slightly under Clint.

“Dammit, Clint!” she hollered. “You damned fool bastard! What are you trying to do?! Get us _both_ killed?!”

“Barbara, such language from a lady!” Clint laughed, the sounds of his engine and propellers growing louder under the dense coverage of leaves and branches. “You kiss your mother with that mouth?”

Bobbi growled low. “I _hate it_ when you call me that.”

As they burst out the other side, both planes pulled up to avoid hitting lower-lying trees, but it was Bobbi who came out ahead.

She pushed her plane to the limits, swooping from one side to the other in order to keep Clint from passing her, or going under her. Clint kept his curses to himself. He knew he could climb higher, get above her, but it would be almost impossible to get in front of her again. Especially with only a small curve in the tree line to use as a possible advantage.

Small though it was, it was at least enough to get Clint back to being almost even with her. He came up along her right side, and it was a race to the finish. Clint had Roman Road in sight, he just needed to get ahead of Bobbi. Every time he’d get a nose length ahead of her, she was right there to take it back.

They zipped across the roof of an old farmhouse, the last stretch zeroing in fast. Clint could feel his palms sweating, and the bead of sweat that rolled down his temple out from under his helmet. He had to get his nose across the road first, he had to. Everything he’d ever owned back in the States depended on it.

Clint swallowed hard. 300 feet to go, 200. He checked to his left and felt his pulse skyrocket. He could do it. He could make it! 100 feet! It was his! The deed to his home was as good as his again! With only 75 feet left between him and a victory roll of triumph, Bobbi’s plane made a sudden incline, as she put just enough space between them for her to turn over in a roll as the tip of her nose crossed the other side of Roman Road; barely two seconds before Clint had.

It was over. Clint had lost, and more than just the race.

Back on the ground, everyone crowded around Bobbi’s plane as she rolled to a stop and turned everything off. Clint watched them from his cockpit as he slowly rolled his way back to the flight line. Everyone cheering, congratulating her while she bounced down out of the plane like she didn’t have a care in the world. Like she hadn’t just taken everything from Clint. All over again.

She’d won it though, fair and square. Maybe on a small technicality – Clint hadn’t specified that she had to already be across the road when she did the roll – but she’d won. Who needed a house and land anyway? What was Clint going to do with all that wide open space? Besides, who said he was even going to make it out of the war to begin with? And even if he did, what was to say he’d even _want_ to go back to the States, let alone crummy old _Iowa_.

Never mind the fact it had been his grandparents’ place, the house his mom had grown up in, and that Clint had bought at auction with his own hard-earned money. It was only land, right?

Pulling his helmet off and pushing the canopy back, Clint climbed out onto the wing and put his best face forward. Might as well not come off looking like a downtrodden jackass. His mouth curled up into an easy smirk as he jumped down and unzipped his flight suit partway. Both his crewmates and Bobbi’s migrated towards him, Bobbi in the center of the group looking pleased as punch with herself.

“Well, Birdie,” Clint shrugged, arms outstretched at his sides, “congratulations.”

Bobbi smirked back at him, her arms folded over her chest. “Wasn’t so hard to beat you, Sport. You’re still just as predictable as you’ve always been.”

“Only ‘round you, baby doll.”

The pilots and aircrew that stood around them laughed and jeered, some threw their arms around the waists of the women still milling around and pulled them off away from the group. Clint leaned back against the wing as the crowd started to thin and shook his head fondly, a soft, self-deprecating chuckle bubbling out of him.

“Well kid, there we have it then. I guess.” Head ducked, Clint reached up to scrub his hand through his sweat-soaked hair. “Place is yours to do with however you—“

“Lieutenant Barton.”

Ward’s voice grated on Clint like nails on a chalkboard. Especially right then.

Groaning inwardly, Clint slowly rolled his shoulders and lolled his head back, barely bothering to open his eyes as Ward and Fitz strolled back towards them. When they were just about within arm’s length -- and Clint was waiting for them to take another two steps closer so he could maybe get a punch off on the guy -- they stopped. Ward’s dark eyes were narrowed and cold, while Fitz looked like he’d maybe just been told the meaning of life as his blue eyes danced from Clint to Bobbi and back again.

Clint rolled his eyes and sighed, tugging his sunglasses off.

“I know, I know,” he groaned, his hands stuffed into his pockets nonchalantly. “You’re here to throw me in the can until Coulson shows back up, so he can stand me in a corner and really let me have it. I know.”

“Actually, that won’t be necessary.”

His heart suddenly leapt into his throat as he heard Coulson’s voice above the chatter of those around him, and Clint did his best not to give Ward the satisfaction of seeing the panic he felt inside cross his face. Even though it wasn’t easy to hide, especially not with Coulson stepping out from behind Ward. Clint swallowed hard as he stole a quick glance back to Bobbi, who was slowly inching her way closer to her own commanding officer.

It was hard to judge Coulson’s reaction to Clint’s stupid stunt given the way Coulson always schooled his features just so. Clint wanted to think he was in the clear, for the most part. At least, he hoped he was. Coulson’s eyes weren’t giving away much, even after they focused in on his black eye, but Clint thought he saw a glimmer of amusement in them, and in the small, polite, not-smile that seemed to be Coulson’s default expression when he wasn’t quite sure what to make of a situation.

Clint stood maybe just a little bit straighter, his shoulders that subtle hint more squared. He didn’t move as Coulson stopped just a few steps ahead of Ward, close enough for Clint to make out the flecks of brown that jutted across Coulson’s eyes.

Head cocked and that not-smile morphing into maybe just the smallest real smile, Coulson shook his head once. “Barton. Didn’t I ask you to stay out of trouble while I was gone?”

Clint gulped softly.

“Yeah, well, I did. For the most part.” He mumbled before quickly changing the subject, “When did you get back, sir?”

Coulson’s smile twitched and a spark of mischief flickered in his eyes. “About four minutes after your plane scraped the top of my staff car, I believe.”

 _Ohhh, shit_ …

Suddenly, it felt like the bottom was falling out from under Clint. If he’d been wearing his uniform tie, it would have been choking him to death by now.

“Uh, sir?” Clint prayed his voice didn’t give away how terrified he was right then. “I can explain, sir. You see, sir, I—“

Coulson raised his hand, sufficiently cutting Clint’s ramble off without even saying a word. Clint practically swallowed his tongue -- what didn’t nearly get chopped off by his jaw snapping shut, that was.  

“Did you have fun?” Coulson asked, turning his eyes to Bobbi.

“Yes, sir,” both Clint and Bobbi answered in unison.

Coulson’s smile grew a bit more in amusement, casting his stare back on Clint. “Did you win?”

Pink rose up on Clint’s face, from his collarbone all the way to the tips of his ears, and he ducked his head, finding a sudden interest in his scuffed up boots. “No, sir.”

In front of him, Coulson gave an amused hum in acknowledgement. God, it was bad enough Clint could practically hear Bobbi’s inner victory chant over beating him, he didn’t need for Coulson to find amusement in his failure, too. Even though, in the back of his mind he’d kind of figured it would happen. It usually did with the people in Clint’s life. Clint’s shoulders hunched closer to his ears.

“What were the stakes?”

It was an innocent-as-hell question. Obviously if Clint was going to race against just one other person, there had to have been some stakes at play. Clint just didn’t want to say ‘all my worldly possession back home, currently under the guard of the Wicked Witch of Southern California.’ Coulson didn’t need to know that Clint would be a homeless soldier once the war was over. So he stayed quiet.

It was Bobbi who couldn’t keep her mouth shut.

“Drinks tonight.”

Clint’s head shot up, his eyes wide in surprise. Okay, so, maybe he and Bobbi weren’t so bad off after all. He flashed her an appreciative grin and looked back to Coulson with a nod.

“That’s right. And since I lost, it looks like I’m buying the rounds tonight.” The easy confidence and charming smile returned as Clint pushed himself off the wing again and stood straight once more.

He waggled his eyebrows at Coulson playfully, just for the hell of it as he pushed his sunglasses back onto his face. “You wanna come along, Major? I’ll buy you a drink, too.”

Never in a million years had Clint figured Coulson would actually accept the invitation. He didn’t usually. Not unless it was Ward or Steve who offered. Clint may have been starting to get a little bit of special treatment from Coulson, but that didn’t mean the guy would want to go drinking with them.

And yet…

“Where at?” Coulson tilted his chin up a hair, his expression turned thoughtful.

Clint blinked twice and nearly had to pick his jaw up off the ground. “Uh, well, hadn’t really decided yet. Somewhere in Peterborough, I guess. Maybe Browning’s?”

Coulson smiled softly as he nodded and started to turn away.

“Browning’s,” he uttered back with another nod. Glancing over his shoulder as he continued to turn away, Coulson gave a genuine closed-mouth smile. One that reached all the way to his eyes and crinkled the corners just slightly. “I may just have to stop by later.”

Clint stood dumbfounded as Coulson nudged past the equally-surprised Ward. Had that really just happened? Better question, _what_ had just happened?

Ward’s head shot back around to stare at Clint in the most indignant sort of way, like Clint had just insulted the man’s grandmother or something, before he turned to catch up to Coulson.

“Sir? You’re letting him get away with that?”

Clint heard Ward ask, just barely above the roar of blood rushing past Clint’s ears.

“No one got hurt. No planes damaged. Nothing here but an impromptu training exercise.”

“But sir!”

Ward, Coulson, and Fitz all faded out of hearing range while Clint still stood glued to the spot next to his plane. It took a smack on the back and Tony’s arm around his shoulder to get him moving again. And even then Clint still felt like he’d just been smacked in the face.

Tony laughed and reached out to tuck his finger under Clint’s jaw to push it shut as he ushered them both off towards the living quarters area of camp. “C’mon, lover boy. Let’s get you cleaned up and presentable before you treat us all to drinks!”

Clint could only nod dumbly as he followed. “Yeah. That’s probably a good idea.”

 


	7. Chapter 7

 

“So are you gonna explain how you got that shiner, or am I left to use my imagination?” Bobbi asked as Clint sat down at their table with two more glasses: a rum and Coca-Cola for himself, and a Manhattan for Bobbi.

Browning’s Pub wasn’t the usual hangout for their squadron, but then, Clint hadn’t exactly wanted to take Bobbi and Company to Nickel Ante. That wasn’t exactly the place you took a bunch of ladies, even ones who acted more like guys than anything else. Browning’s, on the other hand. Browning’s was more upscale and snazzy. They even had a four-piece band with a singer settled off on a low stage in the corner. And more Royal Air Force flyboys than Clint had ever seen in his life.

The 187th stuck out like a sore thumb in their summer khaki uniforms amongst the sea of royal blue.

Shaking his head, Clint lifted his glass in a mock salute. “Nope,” he said, the P on the end popped for emphasis.

Bobbi nodded, took her glass daintily in hand, and sipped from it. She’d cleaned up nice since she’d beaten him at their race. Somewhere she’d managed to dig up a dazzling blue dress with small white polka dots scattered across it and dark blue heels to match. Her blond hair was pulled up into one of the more popular styles -- Clint could never remember the styles’ names -- that left the gentle waves and curls off her face and hanging loose around her shoulders, except for two petite rolls along either side of her head. It was pretty, and it certainly worked for her, but Clint was glad it was her dealing with all that hair and not him.

“All right then,” she finally said with a decisive nod, “I’ll use my imagination. You pissed off one of the other boys and it ended in a schoolyard brawl. Lots of blind punches, but mostly flailing, kicking, hair pulling and rolling around.”

Clint looked up at that, an eyebrow quirked. “Are we still talking about a fight? Or the last time we screwed? Cuz that sounds an awful lot like-- OW!”

He jumped, reaching down to rub his palm over his shin where Bobbi’s shoe had nailed him. His scowl was mirrored by Bobbi and Clint grumbled under his breath about it being a joke. Clint honestly couldn’t remember the last time he’d had sex. It’d been way too long. If it hadn’t been for a vivid imagination, his left hand, and five minutes alone in the showers, he’d have died of blue balls by now.

Bringing her cocktail glass to her lips again, Bobbi drank from it slowly, seemingly savoring the taste. Clint never could understand how she could drink those things.

“Actually,” Bobbi set the glass down carefully and dabbed the corner of her mouth with the small napkin, “if I recall, the last time we screwed, it was our three-month anniversary, I was five-months pregnant, and it only lasted a few minutes before you passed out and I was left to finish on my own.”

Damn, the woman knew exactly where to hit. Clint made a face, downed half his glass in one go, and sighed. That wasn’t exactly how he remembered it, but admittedly, he may have been a little sauced at the time. It had only been four years, but it felt like lifetimes ago. They were younger then -- obviously -- and foolish enough to think they were in love. They really weren’t. The marriage had been a quick necessity to avoid Clint being threatened with a shotgun by Bobbi’s brother, and it honestly ended with more of a bang than any bombs dropped from Steve and Bucky’s Marauder.

Clint shifted uncomfortably as he remembered those last few months with Bobbi. All the tears and screaming matches they’d had with each other, the misplaced blame for something that hadn’t been either of their faults.

“Sometimes I wonder if we would have been okay if Francis hadn’t--”

“Don’t even finish that sentence, Barton, if you know what’s good for you.”

Clint looked up from his partially-empty glass to meet Bobbi’s narrowed eyes and stone-cold expression. Right. There was a reason Clint had stopped drinking -- or, stopped drinking as much as he used to -- he got maudlin and always managed to bring up the one topic that should never be brought up.

Scowling, Bobbi finished off her drink in one gulp and set the glass back down with just a bit more force than necessary. Guess she wasn’t over it yet, either. Not even four years was enough to dull some pains.

“We both know we wouldn’t have worked, Clint. And we both know _why_ we wouldn’t have worked, and it had absolutely _nothing_ to do with Francis. Now go get me another drink, and when you come back, you better have something different to talk about.” She punctuated her point with another sharp jab to Clint’s chest with her finger.

What was it with her and jabbing Clint’s chest? It felt like she was trying to shove her hand through his ribcage or something. Clint rubbed at the place where his shirt button had been shoved into his sternum and stood.

“Sure, we can talk about what you plan to do with my old place since I’m apparently not getting it back,” he muttered, finishing off his own drink before reaching for Bobbi’s glass.

“Oh, will you knock the pout off. I’m not keeping your damn house. I’ve got no use for it. I’ll call my mother later and make sure it all gets signed back over to you. Stop your bellyaching.” Bobbi waved her hand flippantly at Clint, and didn’t give him a chance to reply before she continued. “No. When you get back, we’re gonna talk about what’s going on with you and that Coulson fella.”

Clint recovered from his shock quickly once he heard Bobbi’s counteroffer for conversation topics. Rolling his eyes, he huffed a sigh. “That’s gonna be the shortest and most boring conversation in the world, but sure, honey. If it makes you happy, that’s what we’ll talk about.”

* * *

 

Phil wandered into Browning’s Pub an hour and a half after most of his men had scattered for the night. He couldn’t fault them wanting to get out and stretch their legs, to enjoy themselves while there wasn’t much else for them to do. Phil just hoped they wouldn’t enjoy themselves too much. As it was, he’d had to loan out nickels to a few of the boys for the Pro Stations. At least he hoped he wouldn’t have to worry about losing any pilots because they went and got themselves some kind of V.D.

It’d happened before. The conversations were never ones Phil enjoyed having.

Inside the pub it was loud with laughter and music, and Phil found himself wondering if maybe he should have just stayed on the base. Bars had never really been his thing. Too many bad experiences. Though, with his squadron in the mix, Phil felt slightly more secure. He shouldn’t do anything too stupid, knowing his men were all there.

As he made his way through the room, he passed a friendly nod and hello off to the few pilots he recognized as his own, and offered polite smiles to the even fewer women who’d turned their eyes on him. Why they would, Phil didn’t know. He wasn’t exactly exceptional to look at. Even in his full uniform, which he’d decided to wear out. So many of the pilots had left their Ike jackets either at base or on chairs scattered around the bar, and there stood Phil in his full tunic all buttoned up tight like a stooge.

Still, he held his head tall, his shoulders square as he bustled through the dancing bodies and finally reached the bar. Nestled against a dividing wall, the bar was slightly less crowded than the dance floor and he was able to find himself a place to lean against in order to check out the room. So far, he’d yet to find Barton. Not that he was _looking_ for him, of course. Phil just wanted to see him, nod in acknowledgement so the Lieutenant knew he’d actually shown up, and then possibly slip back out quietly without being seen. But, not seeing Barton probably meant that he’d left with that blond pilot Phil had seen him with earlier that day.

The bartender stepped up across the bar from him, waiting with a mostly-impatient stare for Phil to order something. Right. Well, if Barton wasn’t around, then it looked like Phil was going to have to buy his own drink.

“Screwdriver,” He finally decided with a nod. “Easy on the vodka.”

The barman nodded and turned just as a voice spoke right up against Phil’s ear.

“Why don’t you just have a Slow Comfortable Screw Up Against the Wall, instead?”

Phil spun, fully prepared to clobber someone in the jaw. “Excuse me, ...Barton?”

Heat most definitely did not flash across Phil’s face and up his ears, and even if it did, he could blame it on the fact it was a little too warm in the pub. Barton stepped up beside him, holding his two empty glasses and motioning for two more as he laughed easily. Phil wasn’t going to let himself get caught up in the sound of that laughter, he wasn’t. Of course, he also wasn’t going to let himself take in the way Barton scrunched his nose up when he gave honest laughs.

When Barton turned back to face him, it was clear the pilot had already had his fair share of drinks, but he didn’t seem to be completely sauced yet. For whatever reason, that made a knot  in Phil’s chest relax some.

“Slow Comfortable Screw Up Against the Wall,” Barton repeated with a smirk. He leaned his weight against the brass rail of the bar just as Phil’s drink was set in front of him.

“It’s a Screwdriver, but with one part gin, one part Southern Comfort, and one part some kind of vanilla-woodsy-tasting liqueur I can’t pronounce, then topped off with orange juice. They’re pretty good.”

Phil shook his head slightly. “Sounds like it would get me drunk far faster than I’d like.”

Barton’s laughter filled the space between them again and Phil found himself smiling just a little, even in spite of himself. He took a slow sip from his drink as Clint twisted to pick up the refilled glasses.

“Major’s a bit of a lightweight when it comes to drinking?”

“Not at all,” Phil answered, shaking his head maybe a little more adamantly than necessary. “I just have a lot of Scottish blood in me and I know when to quit before the Scottish blood takes over.”

Once again Barton laughed, his nose scrunching up as he turned back to face Phil. Okay, maybe Phil did notice the way it did that. A little too much. He wasn’t going to let himself dwell on it though. Or on the way it made his chest clench up. Phil was a professional, and he was Barton’s commanding officer, and possibly his friend. That was it.

“I got ya,” nodded Barton while he turned, ready to make his way back to wherever he and the blond woman were hidden away. Phil really should let him leave and get back to her. She was probably starting to wonder where he’d disappeared to.

And yet Barton continued to just stand there awkwardly for a moment, like he was weighing an idea around in his head. Privately, Phil had hoped it was an invitation to join them, even though he knew how ridiculous that was. He didn’t want to be the third wheel.

Apparently, Barton had decided that, too.

“I better get back to the table,” Barton finally said with a nod, holding up the drinks for emphasis. “Don’t forget! Your drinks are on me!”

Phil shook his head, his default mask sliding back into place. “That won’t be necessary, Lieutenant.”

“Yes it is. I lost the race; drinks are on me. I’ll regret it later. Right now, get whatever you want. See ya back at base, sir.”

Without so much as a second glance over his shoulder, Barton disappeared back through the crowd and left Phil standing at the bar by himself once again. Phil stood staring after Barton for a moment longer until someone bumped him from behind and caused his drink to slosh over his hand. He cursed under his breath, trading hands so he could try to shake the orange juice from his fingers, and glanced over his shoulder. He’d very much outgrown bars.

The man behind him was dressed in an American Army Air Corps uniform, even if it wasn’t quite to stock with Phil’s. He’d turned, probably to apologize for knocking into Phil, and froze. Tall and dark didn’t begin to describe the man. Very dark and very intimidating were slightly better descriptors. One dark brown eye stared down at Phil and a scowl crossed his face.

“Well, fuck me.”

“Marcus?” Phil’s face contorted in confusion and he had to take a step back to quickly look the man over from head to toe .

“Phil Coulson. Hot damn, it’s a small war after all.”

Marcus Johnson was one of the biggest and baddest men Phil had ever met in his life. They’d known each other since Phil was in his late teens and found himself wandering the wrong area of Atlanta after dark. He’d only been in the service a few months and was still trying to get a steady grip on a bad attitude. One that, when he was confronted by a group of Negro boys, nearly got him in a world of trouble.

Phil still remembered the way the then-twenty-seven-year-old had yanked him up off the ground -- Phil a bloody mess, shirt torn, and cover missing altogether -- stood him up, and told him just what kind of a damned fool he was. Somehow Marcus had gotten through to Phil, though. And even though he wasn’t really supposed to, Phil would leave base whenever he was allowed to and go spend time with Marcus. By the time Phil was to be relocated to a new base, he’d matured and become far less angry than he’d been before.

They’d kept in touch occasionally through the years, but Phil had lost touch with Marcus once the war started up.

And now, here he stood!

Phil set his drink down and extended his hand out for a shake. “Jesus, Marcus. What the hell are you doing here?” He paused, eyebrows scrunching together. “What happened to your eye?”

Marcus laughed, taking Phil’s hand but instead pulling him in for a quick, partial hug. They both ignored the shocked glances they got from the American flyboys around them.

“It’s Fury, now. Nick Fury. And you still haven’t changed a damn bit, have you?”

“Maybe a little. Not as much as you, apparently,” Phil answered, his expression open and sincere as he pulled back from the hug. He hadn’t realized until right then how badly he’d needed to find a friendly and familiar face in the crowd, especially after he’d been abandoned for a bombshell blond with an ample chest and plenty of curves in places Phil would never have.

“Seriously though, what are you doing here? You’re a pilot?”

Shaking his head, Nick picked up his own drink off the bar. “Nah. Not anymore. I’m too damn old to be flying around getting shot at all the damn time. I’m strictly ground crew, these days.”

Nick turned so his back was against the brass rail and raised his glass to motion towards a group of black men standing near a table of women, laughing and flirting up a storm. “See those boys? That’s half of my crew. The rest of the Redtails went to some dive down the block.”

A slow smile spread across Phil’s face as he looked from the pilots back to his friend. “The Tuskegee Airmen,” he said almost reverently. “I’ve heard a lot about you. I was hoping I’d get to come across a unit of yours at some point.”

With a partial smile of his own, Nick clapped Phil across the back. “Finish your drink and I’ll go introduce you to my three favorite aces. Then we’ll head out and I’ll tell you what happened to my damn eye. Since I know you’re waiting to ask me again about it.”

“I didn’t want to be rude,” Phil smirked around the brim of his glass.

“Bullshit, you didn’t. Hurry the hell up, and let’s go.”

* * *

 

Clint wasn’t pathetic, no matter what Bobbi said. He wasn’t pathetic and he sure as hell wasn’t pining over his commanding officer. Because that would be just weird. And probably against regulation somewhere. He didn’t know where, but if he asked Fitz about it, he’d probably get told where exactly. Right down to the line number.

“God, I can’t believe you, Clint,” Bobbi groused. “You are _so_ pathetic. I send you up there for more drinks so you can pull Coulson over here and I could properly meet him, and _you left him there_. Did you even _try_ to invite him over? Because given the lost expression written all over his face, I bet he would have appreciated having someone to sit with.”

“I’m not pathetic.” Clint heaved a heavy sigh as he glanced off towards the bar again, just in time to see Coulson wander off with someone. It was for the best. If he’d actually asked Coulson to join them, and Coulson had accepted, Bobbi would have tried -- and probably would have succeeded -- to embarrass the hell out of him.

Beside him, Bobbi huffed.

“Yes, you are. It’s ridiculous. I just wanted to formally meet him. Find out for myself what you see in him. Aside from the fact that he fills out a uniform pretty nicely.”

Clint tossed her an ice-cold glare. A wave of irrational jealousy and possessiveness rose up in his chest out of nowhere. Though whether it was because his _ex-wife_ was quite obviously checking out _His_ commanding officer (and when had Coulson become _His_ with a capital H?), or because Clint still felt some strange surge of marital rights towards Bobbi, he didn’t know. All Clint knew was that he didn’t like her talking like that about Coulson.

“You would have embarrassed the hell out of me, that’s what you would have done!”

“What?” Bobbi laughed, shaking her head. “I would not have embarrassed you! When would I ever purposely embarrass you?”

“You want the full list, or just the times since you landed on my airfield this afternoon?”

“So now it’s _your_ airfield?”

“Yeah! Maybe it is!”

“God, Barton, you’re such a twit, you know that? I can’t believe I ever…”

Bobbi’s voice trailed off slowly as a shadow fell over their table. Clint was ready to fire back a snarky comment of his own before he caught sight of the man suddenly standing behind one of their empty chairs. Dark brown hair slicked down, with dark brown eyes to match, and a baby face on top of that, Clint looked the man up and down once.

“Help you?” Clint asked, leaning forward slightly.

Dark eyes snapped to meet Clint’s and he could actually feel the coldness in them.

“Yeah,” He answered, the distinct English accent evident even in just that one word. “You can start by maybe treating the lady with a little more respect.”

Clint rolled his eyes and leaned back in his chair, looking the man over again. The guy stood there all proper-like in his full RAF uniform, but the way he talked, the tone of it, Clint could tell whoever the kid was, he hadn’t grown up going to prep schools and having things handed to him. This kid sounded like he’d probably had a somewhat similar upbringing to Clint’s. One that involved far more living on the streets and doing what he had to in order to survive than anything else.

Shaking his head, Clint laughed softly. “Alright flyboy, go shine your wings in somebody else’s eyes, okay? My friend and I were just having a good time and playin’ around, weren’t we?”

“Didn’t look like she was having a good time from where I was sitting, mate.”

Bobbi quirked an eyebrow as she glanced from Clint to the RAF pilot. When she held out her hand to the man, Clint nearly fell backwards out of his chair.

“Thank you,” Bobbi crooned, smiling flirtatiously up at the pilot. “It’s nice to see there are still gentlemen left in the world.”

Clint’s jaw dropped and he physically had to grip the edge of his chair to keep from jumping up to punch the guy when he took Bobbi’s hand and kissed across her knuckles.

“We’re a rare breed, but we are still out there. Those of us the Krauts haven’t blasted out of the sky yet, anyway.” He slowly released Bobbi’s hand, but had yet to look away from her. “Mind a spin on the dance floor, love? I promise I’m far better company than this bloke.”

“Hey! Now wait just a second!” Clint protested, shoving his chair back as he stood. It teetered dangerously for half a second before coming to rest on all four legs again.

Bobbi grinned, ignoring Clint’s protest, and carefully pushed herself to her feet.

“I would love to.”

Clint couldn’t believe what he was seeing! He stood there with his mouth hanging open like a fool, and honestly, he was starting to feel like one. All higher brain functions seemed to run away as he watched Bobbi take the flyboy’s hand again and smile at him sweetly as he introduced himself.

“Flying Officer Lance Hunter, by the way. And you are…?”

“Barbara Morse, but you can call me Bobbi.”

Hunter smiled smoothly as he nodded and started to lead Bobbi for the dance floor. Jaw set and hands balled into fists at his side, Clint moved around the table to catch Hunter by the arm before they could get far. He tried to keep his temper under control, really he did.

“Okay, Lancelot, or whatever your name is. Why don’t ya just get back up on your horse an’ go find some other damsel-not-in-distress to go rescue, huh?”

In an instant, Hunter had let go of Bobbi’s hand and spun to face Clint, shoving his hands firmly into Clint’s chest to knock him backwards.

“Why don’t you go back to whatever American hick hole you crawled out of and leave the lady alone, yeah?”

“Because that _lady_ just _happens_ to be _my_ ex-wife!”

“Ex?” Hunter asked, head slightly tilted. “Meaning she isn’t anymore. Which means she can dance with whomever she pleases. So get lost, why don’t’cha?”

Behind Hunter, Bobbi gave Clint a warning look. One that practically screamed, _Don’t do anything stupid, Barton. I mean it._ In any other circumstance, Clint might have caved and backed down after getting that look. But after half a dozen drinks -- even diluted-down ones -- Clint’s temper was short to spark and he wasn’t particularly in any mood to deal with some RAF flyboy with a shining-knight complex.

Which mean instead of walking away, instead of just being a decent-enough gentlemen and letting Bobbi go off with some strange guy, Clint shrugged. “How about you make me, Limey?”

Hunter and Bobbi both froze mid-step. Time seemed to stand still as all eyes turned to them. Clint never was very good at keeping his mouth shut. Slowly, Hunter turned with fire burning in his eyes.

“What did you call me?”

“You heard me.”

Stepping forward, Hunter growled low in his throat as he shoved at Clint’s shoulders again. Only this time, Clint was prepared for that. He didn’t stumble back. Instead he stepped forward and shoved hard against Hunter’s chest. The guy wasn’t hardly any bigger than Clint. He could take him.

When Hunter grabbed him by the tie and hauled Clint off his feet, a balled up fist in his line of sight, Clint smirked.

Oh was he going to be in so much trouble for this, and right then, Clint didn’t even care.

 


	8. Chapter 8

 

Phil shook his head, chuckling softly under his breath at what Nick had been saying as they walked down the street. They’d only just left Browning’s Pub after Phil was introduced to Nick’s best pilots: Captain Sam “Falcon” Wilson, Captain Alphonso “Mack” Mackenzie, and Lieutenant Antoine “Trip” Tripplet. The three were apparently a sight to be seen on their own, but put them together and they were damn near unstoppable. They also loved to tell stories about each other, but mostly about how their ground executive officer lost his eye and managed to not get a discharge.

“So, let me get this straight,” Phil held his hand up in front of him, ticking points off as he went. “You’d started off as a pilot for the RAF when the war first started?”

“1939, yeah.”

“They released you from service in ‘41 so you could come back to the States and enlist?” Phil glanced to his left for confirmation.

Nick nodded but kept his eye straight ahead as they walked. “After Pearl Harbor, right.”

Phil sidestepped a lamp post and continued, “Flew two missions before you got shot down. And some ‘locals’ found you and fixed you up?”

“That so hard to believe?” Nick asked, finally turning his head to look at Phil. One eyebrow raised in curious warning of what Phil had to say next.

Chuckling, Phil shook his head and lowered his hands. Okay, so it was maybe a little hard to believe, actually. Phil had known Marc -- _Nick_ \-- for several years, and if there was one thing he knew about Nick, it was that the man hated being coddled and fussed over. Which, if Trip’s story had been right, was exactly what the students of the all-girl’s boarding school in Greece had done when they found his shot-down plane.

“No. No, of course,” Phil shook his head again with a small grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. “The fact you changed your name to convince the Army Air Force that Marcus Johnson was dead, and _Nick Fury_ had been around all the while, though. That I find hard to believe.”

Pausing mid-step, Phil turned to face Nick and tilted his head. “You seriously told them you were the greatest good they were ever going to get?”

“Right to the first Group Commander I came across,” answered Nick, a slow curve curling the corners of his mouth as he stopped walking. He took a moment to scan the mostly empty street and take a breath of the cool, damp air before turning to face Phil. “I convinced them that I could do more good on the ground whipping flyboys into shape than I could in the skies, and that I didn’t need twenty/twenty vision in order to point a gun and shoot.”

“And they bought it?”

Nick shrugged, hands palm up as he stretched his arms a bit. “I’m still here, aren’t I? Haven’t been sent home yet. So, so far, I’d call it a success.”

“Besides,” he reached into his tunic pocket to pull out a pack of cigarettes and box of matches. Phil shook his head in decline when Nick offered one to him, “in case you haven’t noticed, there’s a war goin’ on.”

“You know I think I did hear about a war happening in these parts, once or twice. Is that what the thunder in the distance at night is all about?” Phil asked with a tilt of the head and small smirk in place.

In front of him, Nick laughed out loud around his cigarette. He flicked the matchstick to the sidewalk and shook his head. Phil honestly had forgotten how good it felt to joke around with someone. Contrary to what most of his men believed, Phil really did have a sense of humor. They just didn’t get it. Well, except Barton. Phil had seen Barton try to hide his snorts of laughter after Phil had made a particularly dry joke about something. Out of all the men assigned to his unit, Barton was about the only one Phil could maybe joke around with.

Nick had opened his mouth to answer, the cigarette balanced between his fingers, when a black Police car tore around the corner, its wheels screeching on the old, wet cobblestone street. Both Nick and Phil watched as it rushed by them, heading up the way the pair had come from, followed by a second, and then a third.

Phil’s stomach sank and twisted as he realized they were stopping in front of Browning’s. Oh, this was not good.

Beside him, Nick was already breaking into a quick jog back in the direction they’d come from. Phil didn’t blame him. Lord knew the Redtails were an incredible bunch of pilots, but they were still in close quarters with a group of American pilots. American boys who had some very strong opinions about Negro men dancing with white women. As much as Phil didn’t want to think it’d been any of his men who had started trouble, there was the nagging feeling in the back of his head that told him it was.

“Either my boys started a fight with your boys,” Phil called as they reached the bumper of the first Police car, “or…”

His words trailed off as the doors burst open. Two men tumbled out in a tangle of royal blue and khaki, three policemen stumbling after them in an attempt to break them up. In the doorway, smaller fights were breaking out between RAF pilots and AAF pilots while the other three policemen tried to keep them back. But there on the top of the steps, looking guilty and terrified, was the blonde woman Barton had been with earlier.

Her blue eyes lifted and met Phil’s. Without her even saying a word, Phil knew what -- _who_ \-- she was motioning to. He’d seen the tufts of dirty blond hair as they’d rolled down the steps in front of him. God, Phil really shouldn’t have left the bar when he had.

With Nick there to help him, Phil was able to take hold of Barton under the arms and pull him off the pilot he’d been beating into the sidewalk. Nick took hold of the other one, once it became clear no amount of having his head smacked into the bricks was going to stop him from going after Barton.

Barton struggled in Phil’s arms for a moment, until he realized who had hold of him. He relaxed slightly, enough for Phil to believe that he wouldn’t launch after the RAF boy again. Slowly, Phil released his hold on Barton and stepped back when Barton shrugged out of his arms and moved to the side. Despite the fact it looked like it was one hell of a fight, neither Barton nor the other guy looked like they were that terribly injured.

He spared Nick a glance, making sure his friend was taking care of the RAF pilot, before he turned his attention to the police coming towards him. Without giving them a chance to say anything, Phil held up a hand. “Thank you, gentlemen. I apologize for my pilot’s unbecoming behavior. I can assure you it won’t happen again.”

One of the three looked from Phil, to Barton, and then to the unknown pilot. The constable turned his eyes back to Phil. “They both yours then, Major?”

Phil shook his head and pointed to Barton. “Just that one. But I’ll make sure the other one is delivered to his commanding officer. Don’t worry.”

The constables looked between themselves for a moment before the first nodded and started for his car. Phil watched as the others turned to follow, one of them waving their three partners down from the steps of the pub. As the cars rolled away from the curb, Phil took a deep breath and turned to face the three men in front of him. He took a minute to look both pilots over.

They both had the same sullen expression on their faces, and even held themselves in much the same way. Though Barton’s head was turned so he was looking out across the street, his weight heavy on his right leg, while the other one was glancing from the sidewalk, to the steps and the blond, and down again, the weight carrying to the left side of his body. Still, the similarities between them were a little uncanny and Phil felt his eyebrows furrow the longer he watched them. When they both shifted awkwardly at the same time, Phil had to force himself not to laugh. Nothing could be done about the amused and mystified half-smile that tugged up the corner of his mouth, though. Oh God, how had this become his life?

The world, or maybe the war at least, wasn’t big enough for two Bartons.

Inside the pub, the band had resumed playing now that the fighting was over, the slow, sweet opening strands of _The White Cliffs of Dover_ drifting out the open doors. The crowd at the door had thinned out, the men going back inside to dance with their girls or take up their seats at the bar again. Only a few stragglers remained. One of them being Barton’s blond companion. Phil really wished he’d gotten her name, now.

Finally, Phil looked to the RAF Lieutenant. “What’s your name, son?”

The man frowned and huffed as he looked from Phil back to the blond and back to Phil. “Flying Officer Lance Hunter. Sir.”

“You make it a habit of brawling in the streets, Lieutenant?” Phil kept his tone calm and bland. He didn’t want to make Hunter feel as if he were being attacked.

Though, it apparently didn’t matter as Hunter shrugged and tucked his hands into his pockets. “Only when cocky Yanks start ‘em and won’t let me dance with a beautiful woman.”

Phil blinked and glanced back to Barton. He’d been keeping an eye on his Lieutenant, and from what he’d seen in the past few weeks, it was obvious to Phil that Barton really wasn’t one for starting fights. At least not physical fights. Barton was more the type to pull childish pranks on people (which Phil suspected was how Barton wound up with the black eye. Phil would have to question him about it later, though), rather than throw punches.

“Did you start the fight, Barton?”

“No, sir.” Barton shook his head before glancing off towards Hunter. “Limey here butted in where he didn’t belong and tried to take Bobbi for a spin. I grabbed his arm and he turned around and shoved me.”

That sounded more plausible. Phil nodded and turned towards the blonde -- Bobbi -- on the steps.

“Ma’am?”

For a second it seemed like Bobbi was seriously debating on how to answer. Phil watched her gaze flick between the two men before her shoulders dropped and she rolled her eyes. Whatever had happened, and whoever had started it, Bobbi had apparently seen it enough times with Barton involved to be annoyed by it.

Finally, she nodded and waved flippantly towards Barton.

“Clint and I were joking around. Officer Hunter came up thinking we were actually fighting. He asked me to dance and just because I like to mess with Clint, I accepted. Clint grabbed his arm, Officer Hunter shoved him. They tossed insults back and forth. Hunter shoved Clint again, Clint shoved back, Officer Hunter popped him in the jaw.”

Phil nodded once in thanks before looking back to Barton and Hunter. Well, that made Phil’s life a little bit easier. It’d be easier for him to look the other way if Barton hadn’t been the one to start the fight.

“Barton? Have you settled your tab inside yet?”

Eyes downcast, Barton shook his head mumbling a quiet, “No, sir.”

“Go inside and settle it. Then get your jacket if you brought it. We’re going back to base. And you, Flying Officer,” Phil turned his stare on Hunter, who shifted and straightened under its weight. “I suggest you go inside and apologize to the proprietor and offer to pay for any damages you two knuckleheads may have caused.”

Hunter’s eyes went wide and his jaw slack. He shot his head around to stare at Barton, pointing at him as he stared back at Phil again. “He only has to settle his tab and I’m the one who’s going to have to pay for anything we broke?”

The corner of Phil’s mouth twitched and he quirked an eyebrow in amusement. “Oh, trust me. I have a feeling I know about how much Lieutenant Barton’s bar tab is going to be. You’re surprisingly getting the better deal here. If you’d rather though, I’ll put in a call to your Squadron Commander and let him know how you decided to bust up a pub and one of my flyboys all because of a woman. I don’t think he’d take that very well. Do you?”

“Right,” Hunter quickly straightened his jacket and turned to start up the steps. “If you lot will excuse me, I have to go pay for a couple of chairs and a table.”

Phil smirked faintly, mostly to himself, as he watched the two pilots go scooting up the steps. Barton paused next to Bobbi to squeeze her elbow before ducking back into the pub. He may have watched a bit longer than necessary as Barton disappeared around the corner, but no one saw him do it, so no one had to know. He was going to ignore the snort of laughter from Nick behind him. And the curious look he got from Barton’s friend.

Even when she seemed to glide down the steps to meet him.

“Major Coulson,” greeted Bobbi with a polite smile and head tilt.

Behind him, Nick nudged Phil’s shoulder. “I’m going back in to check on my own boys. You take care of yourself, Coulson.”

Glancing over his shoulder, Phil tossed a small but sincere smile up to Nick and nodded. He turned to extend his hand out again. Who knew the next time they’d see each other would be. If ever.

“You too, Nick. Let’s not wait twelve years to run into each other again.”

Nick nodded, shook Phil’s hand firmly and pivoted to go back inside. He nodded to Bobbi politely as he went. When it was just Phil and Bobbi left standing outside, Phil let his shoulders relax just a hair. Up close, and without the flightgear, Phil could see why Barton would put up a protest about Bobbi dancing with another man. The woman was poised and gorgeous. She should have been up on a movie screen, not the cockpit of a bomber or a fighter plane.

“I’m sorry,” Phil apologized, “I don’t think we’ve been formally introduced. Major Phil Coulson.”

“I know who you are, Major,” Bobbi smiled, shaking his hand with just as much firmness and confidence as any man Phil had ever met. “I’m Bobbi Morse. I helped ferry in your two new bombers this afternoon.”

“And then bested my pilot in an unauthorized air race.”

“It was Clint’s idea. Who’m I to say no to a Lieutenant when he offers a race?”

Phil barely caught himself before he could roll his eyes, but it was just barely. No wonder Barton was with her. She was just as cocky as he was.

Shaking his head, Phil drew in a breath, before answering, “Yes, well. I hope you --”

“Listen, Major,” Bobbi shook her head and took a step closer. “I’m sorry to interrupt you, it’s just I know I don’t have much time and I need to tell you something.” Her lips pressed into a thin, bright red line, and she glanced over her shoulder as if making sure no one was coming that could hear her.

When she turned back to meet Phil’s eyes, her words threw him for a loop.

“You need to take care of Clint.” She said. “He hasn’t had an easy life and I’m afraid I didn’t make it any easier for him while we were together. But you gotta understand, he’s the best guy I know. He’d give everything he owned, including his ability to fly again, if it meant helping someone out that needed his help.”

Bobbi’s voice was quiet and sincere. Deeply sincere. And it confused Phil to no end. He’d figured Barton was a good guy, misunderstood and probably never given a fair chance to prove himself, but he was a good guy. So why was Barton’s former...something telling Phil all of this?

“Ms. Morse, I’m afraid I don’t know what you’re trying to get at.”

“What I’m trying to tell you, Major, is that you just need to take care of him for me, will you? He needs someone who’s not going to turn their back on him and let him down again. Someone who will keep him from self-destructing when he gets too drawn into his own head. Will you do that for me? Will you make sure he doesn’t get his damned fool ass blown to bits trying to be a hero?”

Phil’s throat was suddenly very dry. It clicked as he tried to swallow and he shifted just a little under Bobbi’s pleading blue eyes. Here was a woman who cared about Barton very much, probably more than she was letting on. Phil’s head bobbed in a quick, understanding nod.

"I’ll make sure he makes it home to you, Ms. Morse.”

Bobbi’s eyes shifted from pleading to twinkling with mirth. Laughing softly, she shook her head and brushed stray hairs from her face as she smiled.

“Oh, Major. Clint hasn’t come home to me in four years. And believe me, I’d much rather it stay that way, and that he go home to someone who treats him right.”

There was something about the way she looked at him that had Phil wanting to shift uncomfortably. He thanked his lucky stars that the street lamps were dim enough that no one could see the awkward way he cleared his throat, and hopefully couldn’t see the red that was creeping hot up the edges of his ears.

Phil hadn’t realized he’d ducked his head until he felt a warm peck to his cheek, and felt Bobbi’s breath as she whispered, “Just take care of him for me.”

From the steps, Barton cleared his throat softly. Just loud enough to let his presence be known. Not that Phil and Bobbi were doing anything, of course. Because clearly they weren’t, but still Phil took a step back and out of Bobbi’s personal space before he looked up to watch Barton come down the steps. His Ike jacket was back on, but hanging open, and there were obvious liquor stains across the front of Barton’s khaki shirt. His slacks weren’t in a whole lot better shape.

Bobbi scoffed as she rolled her eyes at Barton. “Oh relax, Sport. I didn’t say a word to embarrass you. Not a single one.”

There was a fierce scowl on Barton’s face as he came to stand just to the side of them, his sharp eyes taking them both in in turn. Whether or not he found what he was looking for on either of their faces, Phil didn’t know, but Barton’s scowl softened just a little as he pulled Bobbi into a tight hug. Phil glanced away respectfully. Just because they weren’t still an item didn’t mean he had to watch them say goodbye.

“You take care of yourself, Clinton Francis Barton,” Bobbi ordered when she finally stepped out of his arms and put a decent amount of distance between them again. “I don’t want to find out you’ve done something stupid we’re all going to regret someday. Like blow up the wrong side’s headquarters or something.”

Barton laughed, his nose scrunching slightly before he tossed her a mock salute. “Ma’am, yes Ma’am. I’ll leave the destruction of Allied property solely up to Lieutenant Banner. Don’t you worry about me.”

Rolling her eyes again, Bobbi shook her head as she started slowly backing up towards the steps. “Just don’t get yourself killed, Sport.”

“Why you gotta take all the fun outta things, Birdie?”

Phil shot Barton a look before glancing back to Bobbi. “Do you need us to give you a ride back anywhere?”

“Nah,” Bobbi smiled softly. “I’ll catch a ride back with the rest of the girls. You fellas take care. Fly safe out there.”

“Love you, Bobbi.” Barton called after her as she’d started up the steps.

Twisting at the waist when she’d reached the top, Bobbi looked back at them and smiled. It was a soft, sweet smile. One that Phil was used to being on the giving end of, not the receiving end. It was a smile that you gave when you knew something was over, and that the person you cared deeply about was going to be going on with their lives without you, and you were okay with that.

Bobbi didn’t answer Barton though. She just gave that smile and nodded once before slipping through the doors to the pub again. A small knot twisted in the pit of Phil’s stomach and he tried very hard to ignore it. He’d down a few Alka-Seltzers once they got back to base and hope the knot didn’t develop into an ulcer.

After a minute of letting Barton stare after Bobbi like a puppy, Phil cleared his throat and gently reached up to squeeze Barton’s shoulder.

“Come on, Trouble,” Phil coaxed softly. “Let’s get back to base and get you looked at. Need you cleared to fly.”

Nodding, Barton ducked his head, his hands tucked into his pockets. Together they turned to start off down the street to where the borrowed jeep had been parked. Phil still wasn’t real sure what Bobbi had been trying to get across to him back at the pub, but he’d made a promise to get Barton back to the States in one piece, and Phil wasn’t the type to generally go back on his promises. Not if he could help it.

* * *

 

“You don’t have to do this, Coulson,” Clint grumbled as he was prodded and nudged into Coulson’s quarters and settled at his small table.

“Yes, I do,” answered Coulson as he shut the door behind them. “If I don’t, and I tell you to report to the flight surgeon, you’re just going to run off and hide somewhere.”

Clint didn’t respond to that. Especially considering Coulson was right. Clint took a moment as he sat at the table, glancing around at everything. He had only been in there once before, when he and Tony got busted for gluing Ward’s boots to the floor, but he hadn’t really looked around much then. He was definitely looking now. The room wasn’t overly fancy, considering Phil was the highest ranking officer on base. Still, there was a bed, a real desk with a rolling desk chair, his own coffee percolator, and a few odds and ends of personal belongings.

The few scattered pictures Clint saw showed a tiny, chubby face with bright eyes and a head full of dark straight hair staring straight into the camera curiously. The kid couldn’t have been much more than three or four, and if the pre-Great War-era sailor suit he was wearing was any indication, Clint would have laid money on the fact it was Coulson as a toddler. Beside it was another photo that must have been taken the same day, the toddler wearing the same outfit but held on the lap of a woman, her dark hair piled up high on her head in a very early 1900’s fashion, with a man looking remarkably like Coulson standing beside her, his hand on her shoulder. They must have been Coulson’s parents; they looked too much like him to be anything else. There were one or two other pictures of just Coulson and the woman when he was a bit older, near ten or so, and it was very obvious that it was Coulson by then. There was no mistaking the eyes and faint tic of a smile at the corner of his mouth.

Coulson dragging a second chair over to Clint and sitting down in front of him drew Clint from his thoughts. There was a first aid kit in Coulson’s hands, and a small scowl on his face.

“Now sit still, let me take a look at you. Take your shirt off.”

Clint blinked twice before he sat up straighter. Slowly he brought his hands to his tie. “Hey now, Coulson. I’m not that kinda boy. You’d better be planning to at least buy me dinner first before you go trying to steal my virtue.”

Coulson didn’t miss a beat with his reply. “Barton, something tells me you don’t have any virtue left to steal. Come on, let’s go. I want to make sure you didn’t get any cracked ribs rolling down those steps.”

Clint stared at him for a moment, an amused grin on his face as he undid his tie and started in on the buttons to his shirt. Clint heard what a lot of the other pilots said about Coulson. It was hard to miss, sometimes. There were those who claimed he was inhuman, some kind of secret military experiment or something ridiculous like that. And a few said he’d been born without a personality or funny bone. Clint didn’t believe them. After spending as much time as he did with Coulson, he couldn’t believe them.

His shirt off and sitting in his lap, Clint stared across Coulson’s shoulder as he leaned in to start gently (and maybe not so gently) poking and pressing across Clint’s ribs. It was a good thing he wasn’t particularly ticklish. Though, that didn’t mean shit when it came to other issues with Coulson’s fingers moving across his skin.

Clint took a deep breath and decided to do something to take his mind off of things it shouldn’t be thinking of. Like the fact he could feel calluses on the caressing fingers that proved Coulson was a lot more than just a desk jockey. His eyes locked on one of the pictures on Coulson’s desk. Seemed like a safe topic.

“You, uh, played baseball?” He asked, and oh thank the maker his voice didn’t crack as badly as he thought it would.

Coulson hummed in question before glancing up at him. “Excuse me?”

Clint nodded to the picture. A group of boys ranging from about six to sixteen stood around two younger boys. A baseball bat was between them and their faces set in grim determination as they each had their hands stacked one on top of the other around the neck of the bat. Rallying to see who would be up first and who’d be left to take up the field positions. Coulson was very obviously the smaller of the two boys. His dark ball cap pulled low over his eyes, but the smirk of triumph that his hand came out on top was all Coulson.

“Baseball. I never figured you for much of a sports player.”

Coulson glanced back at the picture, then back to Clint before turning his attention to his ribs again. “I grew up in Chicago, Barton. Of course I played baseball. Everyone did.”

“Yeah, till October of ‘19. Then you didn’t even speak it. Not if you were a Black Sox fan, anyway.” Clint smirked back, not realizing until it was too late that he’d struck a chord with Coulson. The sharp jab at a particularly nasty bruise made him yelp in surprise and jump in his seat.

A cloud had settled across Coulson’s face and Clint mentally kicked himself. He made a note not to mention the fixed World Series again.

“Were you even born yet, by then?” Coulson scowled, his tone icier than it’d ever been towards Clint before. Okay, now he kind of believed some of the rumors he’d heard about him.

“Yeah. Kinda. I mean, I don’t remember it, but I’m told I’d been around for about a year by then. My old man lost money on the Series. Were you around during the series?”

Coulson sat quiet for a moment or two as he reached for the gauze and some tape from the first aid kit. “We’re going to wrap your ribs for a few days. You’ve got some serious bruises.”

Clint took the subject change as a sign that he’d said the wrong thing again. Damn he was just striking out big. No pun intended. Okay, so maybe talking baseball wasn’t such a good idea after all. Besides, what did Clint know about baseball? After his dad lost money on that series, ‘baseball’ had become a four-letter word in their house. Clint and his brother couldn’t even so much as play stickball with the other boys after school without getting their hides tanned by the old man.

He cleared his throat, nodding as he reached to take the tape from Coulson. “Right. Sure.”

“Arms up,” Coulson instructed, not meeting Clint’s gaze, but also not handing over the gauze and tape.

Blinking in surprise, Clint shrugged and lifted his arms enough for Coulson to reach around behind him with each round. Good Lord was he glad he hadn’t had more to drink at the pub. Having Coulson that close to him, feeling his breath across Clint’s chest, was enough to drive Clint batty. He had to stare at the ceiling and bite down on his lip, reopening the split there, just to keep from making any kind of embarrassing sounds. And he was more than relieved to have his shirt still sitting on his lap. At least he wasn’t going to make too big of a fool out of himself.

Coulson’s movements were quick and efficient as he wrapped Clint’s ribs for him, making sure it was tight, but not so tight that Clint couldn’t breathe, though he maybe could have been a little gentler around some of the bruises. Unless he was finding them and jabbing at them on purpose. Which, Clint probably deserved. Apparently he’d made a couple of blunders and so fair was fair. Clint hurt Coulson, Coulson hurt him. Without actually causing any further damage.

“I was eight.”

Clint blinked. “Pardon?”

For a second he thought he’d just heard something in his imagination. Coulson’s face was still as impassive as it’d been a minute ago, and he didn’t seem to be offering up any information, so maybe Clint really had just heard something.

When Coulson sat up straight again and tossed the supplies to the side on the table, he sighed heavily, but looked Clint in the eye. “I was eight years old. My mother and I had just moved to Chicago the year before to live with my uncle. I did chores, sold papers, collected bottles and metal, whatever I could to get enough money to get tickets to the games. I was at every home game of the series. When they lost it hurt. But when it turned out they threw the game…”

Coulson glanced away, shaking his head. His eyes were darker than Clint had ever seen them and Clint couldn’t help but wonder why that had been so important to Coulson. It was just a game and a team, right? Wasn’t like it’d been a matter of life and death. Clint swallowed thickly and shrugged, ready to make some smart-assed remark when Coulson finally finished his thought.

“The Sox throwing the Series was like having the last connection I had to my father severed and I’d lost him all over again.”

Clint’s eyes darted back to the pictures. The man who had been in the scattered few and then was gone once Coulson reached a certain age. Coulson was eight in 1919, which meant he’d been six when America entered the first Great War in Europe. Suddenly, puzzle pieces slipped into place and Clint felt like an even bigger jackass.

“You and your old man were Sox fans.” It was a statement, not a question, but still it was answered with Coulson nodding. “Your old man died in the war?” Again, Coulson nodded silently and without looking at Clint.

“He’d been reported Missing in Action for over a year by the time the Series rolled around. Two days after the trial ended and the eight players got banned, my mother finally received an official telegram and flag from the Army. His remains had been found and identified in a ditch in a German field.”

Clint cringed and glanced away. How was he supposed to respond to something like that? How did anyone respond to that? Coulson just laid something painful out there for Clint and what was he supposed to do with all that? Granted, Clint could relate to losing a parent young. Hell, Clint lost both of his when he was six, he understood how bad it hurt. But there was no way he could understand the depth of Coulson’s ache. The hope that his father was still out there and would be found and brought home safe and sound, only to find out he’d been gone and forgotten for almost four years had to hurt. Especially with that pain piled on top of finding out their team turned out to be crooks.

A heavy silence fell over them as Clint tried to think of something to say. Luckily, he didn’t have to. Coulson cleared his throat and stood up quickly to busy himself with putting the first aid kit back together.

“I swear Barton,” Coulson grumbled, voice thick with emotions he was refusing to let through. “I don’t know what I’m going to do with you. Do me a favor and leave the RAF boys alone from now on, got it?”

Clint huffed a soft laugh and shook his head, taking the subject change for the relief it was and carefully pulling his shirt back on. It pinched and pulled with the wrap around his chest, but he finally managed to get it up and over his shoulders, though left it hanging open as he draped his tie around his neck.

“You really wanna do something with me, I’d really like to just head back home to the States, if it’s all the same to you. Definitely keep me away from those bastards.”

Coulson snorted, glancing sideways at Clint. “If that’s what you’d like me to do, then I think keeping you right here in England and making you fly really fast planes is a much better punishment for getting into a brawl.”

“Aww, you bastard, Coulson.” Clint tossed his hands across his chest like he’d been wounded. When it’d drawn a quiet laugh out of Coulson, Clint grinned and stood. Good. He’d made him laugh again. That was much better than making him upset.

Grabbing his jacket off the table, Clint draped it over his arm and started for the door. “Thanks for patching me up, Coulson. Much better bedside manner than Doc Sully.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Coulson shook his head as he put the kit back where he’d had it stashed and turned his back to Clint. Though not before Clint caught sight of the small smile he’d been trying to hide. “Get outta here, Barton, so I can get some sleep.”

With a bright grin of his own and a jaunty salute, Clint scooted out the door and back through the lines of huts to his own barracks. There’d been a change between him and Coulson. Small, maybe, but a change. One that sent sparks through Clint’s stomach and heated him through. He’d had a small thing for him before, but after the way Coulson had opened up to him back there and taken care of him, the small thing wasn’t so small anymore. Clint just hoped he could make it the rest of the war without doing something stupid. Like act upon whatever it was he was feeling for his superior officer.

 


	9. Chapter 9

 

“A-B-C-D-E-F-G-H- I gotta gal in Kalamazoo. Don’t wanna boast but I know she’s the toast of Kalamazoo-zoo-zoo…”

“Barton!”

Coulson’s voice snapped and popped over Clint’s headset, drawing a pleased little smirk across his face. It was pretty ridiculous the way Clint’s heart did a silly little two-step whenever he got Coulson’s attention, anymore. Oh sure, it wasn’t always good attention, but it was attention nonetheless. And ever since Coulson had patched him up a couple weeks ago after his fight, Clint had been craving the Major’s attention no matter how he got it.

“Yes, sir?” he answered back into his oxygen mask where his microphone was hidden.

Flying just ahead of him was Coulson, leading a six-man escort mission for a small group of bombers heading for France. If you wanted to call it an escort. Clint thought of it more as a relay. There wasn’t even anything to be guarding the bombers from in the middle of the day.

There was a small pop over the line before Coulson finally answered. “Unless you want that gal of yours to get a telegram and folded flag, I’d suggest you stop your singing and adhere to the radio silence I ordered not ten minutes ago.”

“What’s the matter, Major? Don’t like my singin’?”

“Barton, if you don’t close your trap, I’ll make sure you regret it when we get back to base.”

Clint rolled his eyes. “Promises, promises.”

He stayed quiet after that, though. Mostly. The occasional hum might have escaped every so often, though no one said anything about that.

For some reason Coulson had seemed to be on edge for the past few days. Clint didn’t know all the details, only that Coulson had been on the phone with some higher ups and it hadn’t gone well. He tried to bribe more details out of Fitz -- who’d apparently heard the whole thing since he’d been outside Coulson’s office trimming the shrubbery -- but the kid wasn’t talking. And since Coulson was in a foul mood, Clint was too.

Any time he had tried to have a little fun, or to come up with some way to get Coulson to laugh or smile, the guy was right there telling him to knock it off. And if he wasn’t, Ward was. And if Ward was there telling Clint he had to watch himself, that meant Clint just itched all the more to do something obnoxious. Just to spite Ward. A part of him wondered if maybe Coulson had caught a little flack for not punishing Clint for the impromptu air race -- he bet the little brat who’d driven Coulson back to base had squealed about someone buzzing his car -- or if that RAF Rat had run crying to his commanding officer about the big mean AAF boy who’d beaten him up. Either of those should have gotten Clint at least written up, but both times Coulson had let him slide. Maybe now Coulson was feeling the heat about it from the uppers.

A few minutes later the French Air Force came up alongside them to guide the bombers the rest of the way, and Clint listened as Coulson gave his confirmation to their squadron leader. It wasn’t the best French Clint had ever heard, but Coulson wasn’t terrible at it. The guy knew enough to get by.

With the bombers passed off into good hands, Coulson gave the order to head home. As a group, the six Mustangs lowered their altitude to move out of the French flyers’ way and banked to the left, making a wide, swooping turn to start their way back to England. The English Channel sloshed lazily beneath them. Clint wished more than anything that there wasn’t a war on, right then. If he’d been free to fly as he pleased, he would have taken his plane down low to skim across the water and play chase with the fish. Maybe even dip a wing to catch the spray.

Instead, he followed the others as they rose to cruising altitude again and set their sights on home. It was a good thirty minutes just to the mainland, and another twenty or so minutes from there to their base. That meant Clint had just about an hour to kill. And if Coulson wasn’t going to let him sing, then he would just have to find something else to do.

High above them, the sun shone brightly and glittered off the wings of his friends’ planes. It was enough to blind a guy. The rays of light that flooded his cockpit were warm and inviting, the promise that summer had arrived and would be hanging around, at least for a little while anyway.

His head tilted back to let the sun warm his face, Clint closed his eyes for a moment and just enjoyed the feeling of being untouchable. Obviously, with the German Luftwaffe on the rampage, Clint really wasn’t unreachable that high up, but it was nice to pretend for a little while. And besides, the Krauts weren’t out right then, so he was fine.

Clint sighed in contentment, an easy smile on his face, as he broke formation to go higher. No permission, just a casual and easy lift higher and higher. Maybe if he kept going up, he could burst through the sky and find out what was on the other side.

He hadn’t gotten very far before Coulson’s no-nonsense voice broke through the silence again. “What the hell do you think you’re doing, Barton?”

“Relax, Daedalus,” Clint smirked as he took his plane up high enough to do a roll before leveling out again. “My wings aren’t made of feathers and wax. I ain’t gonna melt.”

Clint had Bruce to thank for his new knowledge of the Greek myth of Daedalus and his son Icarus - the boy who flew too close to the sun with his homemade wings despite his father’s warnings, and fell to his death when the feathers came loose.

“I’m going to ignore the fact you seem to think I’m old enough to be your father,” Coulson’s voice was bland and flat, clearly not amused at being called Daedalus. “What I’m not going to ignore though is you breaking formation. Get your plane back down here. Do you want to get shot?”

Doing another roll, Clint sighed and pointed his nose almost straight at the sun. “Who’s gonna shoot me, Coulson? Besides maybe you, I mean.” Clint paused to readjust his oxygen mask. “Say Major, we’re like five minutes from shore. Cut loose a little, would ya?”

“Lieutenant, you get that plane back in line, or so help me—“

“Aw, Coulson,” Clint finally snapped, nudging his power up a bit more to go higher. “You gotta get fucking screwed. Lighten up, Major. Nobody’s up here. Not like I’m gonna get shot.”

The words had no sooner left his mouth than five planes came tearing out of the sky, raining bullets on the men as they went.

Clint startled, a string of curses flooding through the comm. as everyone quickly took to defensive maneuvers. Flashes of fire-red darted across Clint’s vision as he pulled quickly to the left, barely sliding out of the way as a 109 barreled down on him. As the enemy plane started to loop back around for him, Clint pulled the nose of his own up and accelerated. He was near vertical and dangerously close to stalling out when he saw his opening and turned, coming down fast and hard behind the 109, putting him into just the right spot for Clint to open fire and send him spinning into the water below, leaving nothing but the scream of his engine and a trail of smoke streaking after him.

That was one down. Four more to go.

As Clint pulled up from his initial dive, he drew in a sharp breath. Two 109’s were taking off after Scott Lang’s plane, trying to get him in a crossfire. Before Clint could do anything about it, though, Lang’s wingman appeared and took the wing right off the side of the 109 creeping in from the right. The one on Lang’s left broke off, which Clint took as an open invite to follow suit.

“Hawkeye! Where the hell are you?” Coulson’s voice was loud and demanding in Clint’s ears and damn near scared him half to death.

Rolling to the right, Clint made a sharp turn up and could have brushed his fingers across the tip of Coulson’s left wing as he went shooting past him. “Your nine o’clock! Going after this asshole.”

“Dammit Hawkeye! Negative! Negative! Banner has one on his tail. You get it off him! That’s an order!”

“Sorry, sir!” Clint banked into a left turn, still in hot pursuit of the guy who’d gone after Lang. He spared a glance towards the last place he’d seen Banner’s plane, though, just in time to see Danny Rand come up from under the 109 and open fire on it.

The 109 swooped left and right, trying to outmaneuver Rand, possibly to get him to overshoot and hit Banner by mistake. Banner could hold his own though. He took the distraction for what it was and got out of the way before his tail could get shot to hell. Rand managed to do some damage to the Messerschmitt, but not enough to take him down.

Clint was distracted just long enough for the guy he’d been following to get turned around and come right back at him. Clint’s eyes flew open wide and he yanked back hard on the cyclic.

“Shhhhhhhh-iiiiiit, shit, SHIT!”

He’d just pulled the nose up when he heard the distinct _ping-ping-ping_ of metal bouncing off metal. He’d very nearly bought the farm on that pass. Clint cursed quietly as he watched smoke slowly curling out the front of his plane. He’d been hit, but not bad. If it’d been bad, well, he probably wouldn’t have still been sitting there.

Distantly, he could hear Lang announce the two remaining Messerschmitts were limping their way home, and that maybe they should do the same. Clint’s heart was pounding so fast and hard in his chest that he could hardly give a reply.

On his left side, Coulson’s plane appeared. There were a few scoring marks along his fuselage, but nothing life-threatening. Clint watched out of the corner of his eye as Coulson brought his hand up to nudge at his own oxygen mask.

“Barton, talk to me. Are you hurt?”

Clint swallowed thickly and shook his head.

“No, sir,” he paused to swallow again and take a steadying breath, “but my baby’s not feeling so hot. I think I’ve got a small fire going, must have clipped my oil line, but other than that, I think I’m okay.”

Coulson nodded and Clint honestly expected him to fly back off to the head of the group again, now that everyone was making their way back into formation. Instead, Coulson stayed right by his side and called for Banner to lead everyone else on ahead.

“Let Richards and Carbonell know we’re coming with a shot up plane and to be ready for us. Should only be a few minutes behind you. I’ll stay back with Barton to make sure he makes it that far.”

Clint wanted to object, but a quick glance at his coolant and oil temperature had that objection lodge in his throat.

“Yes, sir,” Banner answered as he took the lead, the three other planes falling into line behind him.

Beside him, Coulson sighed in frustration and Clint just knew he was in for an earful once they were back on solid ground. He’d really managed to screw up good this time. Repeatedly disobeying orders and disrespecting a superior officer. That’s what his official write up would say, Clint was sure of it.

“Alright Barton, I want you to ease back on your throttle. Take some stress off your engine.” Coulson finally came across the line again. “We’re gonna fly low. I’ll keep watch from out here, you keep an eye on those gages. How’re your temperatures doing?”

Clint glanced to the right side of his control panel again and watched as the coolant and oil temperatures slowly rose. “Getting a little warm,” he answered with a cringe. Oh yeah, definitely gonna get an earful for this.

He didn’t need to hear the curses he knew Coulson was muttering to himself before, “Open the outlet doors for your coolant and your oil. We’re going to try to keep the temperatures from getting any higher. But in case they do, you tell me immediately and then you find the first open field you can and land that bird, and then get the hell away from it. That’s an order. You _do_ understand what an _order_ is, don’t you?”

Clint rolled his eyes. “Yes, sir. I do.”

From the other plane, Coulson made a soft noise. “Oh good. I was worried, given the fact you’ve ignored every single one of them I’ve given you today. I just wanted to be sure.”

“Ya know, Coulson,” Clint quipped, reaching to the left side of his panel to manually open the outlet doors, as he’d been told to do. “Sarcasm really doesn’t suit you much.”

“And being an insubordinate pain in the ass doesn’t suit you much, either. Yet here we are.”

* * *

 

Not even five minutes after the others had landed and cleared the runway, Clint and Coulson brought their planes in. They were met with the emergency crews and mechanics, each fighting over what needed to be done with Clint’s plane. The emergency team was trying to spray it down with water while Tony and Richards hollered about how they needed to find the leak and couldn’t do that if everything was soaking wet.

With the canopy pushed back, Clint hoisted himself out of the cockpit and stood on the left wing, shaking his head fondly as he dropped his helmet down onto his seat and unzipped his leather flight jacket. All things considered, he was still feeling pretty good. Clouds had started to move in, but the air was still warm enough for guys to be walking around with their sleeves rolled up or uniform shirts absent altogether. The others from his flight were standing at the side of the runway in various stages of undress. Lang and Rand’s flight suits both were half-unzipped, the upper portion hanging down around their waists. Banner stood with his leather A-2 flight jacket in hand as he shifted awkwardly and slowly began to slink away.

Everyone was milling close by, waiting to see what kind of trouble Clint was going to get into with Coulson. Clint had heard a word once, back when he was kid, spoken by this old German lady who used to make soup: _schadenfreude_. He’d asked her once what it meant, and he’d never forget it for as long as he lived. “ _It is when you receive happiness at the misfortune of others, my little one._ ” Well ain’t that the truth? That was exactly what his crewmates were doing, gathering around and feeling thankful that they weren’t in Clint’s boots right then.

Stowing his gloves in his jacket pocket, Clint pulled a package of cigarettes out, tapping one forward to grab. He might as well have one at the ready for when Coulson tied him to the control tower and gave Ward permission to open fire on him. Maybe he’d better let Tony know that Lucky and everything else that belonged to Clint were now his, since there was nobody back home who’d want his stuff.

Coulson stormed by Clint, not even bothering to pull his flight gear off yet, his hair fluffed in a way that reminded Clint of an angry baby duck. Actually, Coulson as a whole kind of reminded him of an angry baby duck right then. It’d almost be cute, if it wasn’t slightly terrifying.

“Barton,” Coulson snapped,his tone just as sharp and angry as his features. “With me. The rest of you, stow your gear and meet Lieutenant Ward for debriefing in the command center.”

The others glanced at Clint before looking to each other and falling in line, making their way back to the equipment storage building to put their things away. Clint wished he could go with them. His parachute was still dangling off his back, the straps heavy on his shoulders and the belt clanging against his legs as he walked.

He felt like an inmate on death row, being walked to the electric chair by the warden. Except, at least the inmate got a last meal. Clint had missed lunch to do this relay. He was going to die on an empty stomach. It was horrible.

* * *

 

They walked through the command center, past a confused Ward, and into Phil’s office. Phil slammed the door behind them once Barton was inside. He stormed past Barton and yanked his own parachute off his back to throw into the chair across the room, not even caring if he looked like a stark-raving lunatic in the process. And if Barton happened to take a step back in surprised fear, then that was all the better. Because dammit! Barton had scared ten years off Phil!

Phil’s gloves followed the parachute, and then his flight jacket, before he finally rounded on his insubordinate Lieutenant. “All right Barton, let’s have it out. What’s with you, huh?”

Barton blinked in surprise and worked his jaw, mouth opening and closing like a fish out of water.

When he couldn’t give an answer, Phil growled and turned for his desk. He motioned to the stacks of papers sitting everywhere before looking back to Barton.

“See these papers? Some of these are formal requests from other pilots in this outfit who’d like to see more air time. Some of these are transfer requests. And even a few of them are possible court martial slips. Now, don’t you think I’ve got enough to do and to worry about without you adding to the headache every time I turn around?”

At least Clint had the decency to look half-ashamed.

Phil sighed in frustration and most definitely didn’t clench his fists at his sides as he replayed the whole event in his head. Barton constantly going against orders, nearly getting himself blown to bits, not to mention his backtalk. By all rights, Phil should be writing up the court martial for him right then and there. But then he’d have even more paperwork to deal with.

Taking a deep breath, he held it as he ground through clenched teeth, “When I give you a direct order, I expect you to follow it.”

Still, Barton didn’t say anything. Which suited Phil just fine. With the mood he was in, he doubted he would have given Barton permission to talk freely anyway.

“What you did out there today was stupid. No, it was beyond stupid. You could have gotten yourself _killed_! You could have gotten any one of us killed!” Phil came out from behind his desk to pace up and down the room. “I realize we’re fighter pilots, it’s kind of in the job description that not everyone is going to make it home, that doesn’t mean you can go against orders and do whatever the hell you damn well please! It doesn’t mean you can take off on your own and try to be a hotshot hero every chance you get!”

Pausing, he turned, staring Barton down with cold, steel-grey eyes. “Because it’s stunts like that that _will_ get you killed. And you’d probably take a few of your friends down with you.”

Barton shifted in place, his hands behind his back and chin slightly raised in defiance. Phil could see a strange emotion cross Barton’s face, there and gone with the blink of an eye. Resignation, maybe? Shame? Disappointment? Phil couldn’t tell, but it had definitely been something.

Just like that, some of the steam left him and Phil’s voice dropped down to a more normal tone. “I don’t know where your disregard for authority comes from, Barton, or what you’re trying to prove by acting like some damned hotshot in the air, but it needs to stop.”

This time, Barton did meet his gaze. His dirty-blond eyebrows scrunched together, causing deep furrows to form across his forehead. At least he’d finally gotten a haircut, so his bangs no longer fell down into his eyes. Eyes that over the past month and a half Phil had found himself thinking about maybe a bit too much. Especially since that night at Browning’s.

“Sir?” Barton asked, quiet and confused.

Phil sighed and shook his head. “I turned the other way when I found out about you taking a plane without authorization in order to race that WASP, and I let you off with a slap on the wrist after the fight at Browning’s Pub, but I can’t just look the other way this time.”

He moved back for his desk, pulling a paper out from his drawer. “I’m sorry, Barton.”

Phil heard more than he saw Barton take two steps forward and lifted his eyes in time to catch the panic flash across the young Lieutenant’s face.

“Sir, I’m sorry. I know what I did was stupid and reckless, but if you’ll just—“

“Barton, enough.” Phil cut him off sharply, keeping a stern gaze locked on him before looking back down to the paper in hand. “You’re grounded for the next thirty days. I catch you so much as running your fingers across a wing, and I’ll make sure you’re on the ground for the duration of this war. And from now on, Barton, you fly as my wingman, or you don’t fly at all.”

“Oh c’mon, Major! That’s such –“

“ _My_ wingman, or not at all! Or you’ll find yourself being the new group adjutant.” He paused, looking up again. “You know what the adjutant is?”

Barton’s shoulders drooped as he nodded. “Yes, sir. They’re a paper pusher.”

“Exactly,” Phil turned his attention back to the report in front of him. “I’ll be making a note of this in your record, and starting at 0400 tomorrow you’ll report to Sergeant Wilson in the dining hall for duty. You’re on KP until the end of your thirty days.”

“KP? For _thirty days_?!”

Glancing up with his eyebrows raised, Phil leveled Clint with a mildly amused stare. “If you’d rather confinement to your quarters for thirty days, I can—“

Barton quickly shook his head and pressed his lips into a tight, thin line. Obviously trying to stamp down on any further objections he was going to voice. “No, sir. I…just wanted to make sure I understood you. Kitchen Patrol it is.”

Phil nodded once and looked away. “Good. In that case, you’re dismissed.”

He kept his focus on his desk as Clint turned sharply and left the room. It was only once he was alone that Phil let out a rush of air and felt himself deflate a bit. God, what he would give for a stiff drink.

* * *

 

The first week of working Kitchen Patrol for ten hours straight every day, 0400 to 1400, was probably the worst week of Clint’s life. Well, no, okay, maybe the second or third worst week. There’d been a couple that were maybe a little bit worse than washing over a hundred food trays and countless pots, pans and utensils all day, every day. Still though, they weren’t a lot worse. It was Clint’s job to make sure each pan and tray was so clean that they sparkled and could double for mirrors in a pinch. As per regulations. Not Army Air Force regulations, mind you; Sergeant Wilson’s regulations.

Overall, Clint really never had an issue with Sergeant Wade Wilson. Sure the guy was a little off, and Clint spent the first five days of his punishment wandering half-asleep back to his bunk only to find strange little gifts and “love letters” from Wilson on his pillow. Wade was a unique guy, Clint had to admit it, and he was certainly determined. Thank God the guy also seemed to have at least some kind of moral code to back off when Clint let him know he was starting to cross some dangerous lines.

Two days into his second week working KP, Clint was leaning against the wash basin taking the second ten minute break that Wilson was kind enough to allow him. He was laughing at whatever nonsensical tale Tony was telling him about and puffing away easily on the customary cigarette he and Tony would share a day, when Wade rushed at them at full speed. There was a manic look in his eyes and for a second Clint feared the guy had finally cracked. It was bound to happen; Clint wasn’t entirely sure Wade ever slept. Or if he did, it wasn’t for much more than a couple minutes at a time. And probably usually with his eyes open.

He came at them and just when Clint was about to dive out of the way, Wade bounced to a stop not more than three inches from Tony. Sometimes, Clint wondered how he made the friends he did, and what had happened in Tony’s past that a rampaging weirdo practically plowing him over wasn’t enough to even make him blink.

“¡Amigos mios!” exclaimed Wade as he took a step back and held his arms out wide. “Están aquí!”

Clint narrowed his eyes and opened his mouth, ready to ask just what the hell Wade had shouted at them, when Tony tilted his head back to let a trail of smoke drift skyward and answered instead.

“¿Dónde demonios íbamos a estar si no?”

“México, donde las chicas son tan bonitas y hay todas las tortillas que puedas comer.” Wade licked his lips and grinned, his eyes closed as he rubbed his stomach.

Okay, so Clint understood “México” and “tortillas”, the rest made no sense and he really hoped Wade was salivating over the tortillas and not something else. Other languages were never really Clint’s thing, at least not Spanish. He knew enough Russian to get by, thanks to his untraditional upbringing, but there weren’t a lot of Spanish-speaking folks around for him to really pick up much.

Tony, apparently, didn’t have that problem. Which was strange given the fact Tony had said both his parents were of Italian descent. Clint didn’t know enough _Italian_ to know if the two languages were even remotely close. For the moment, it seemed Wade didn’t care. He was too busy waxing poetically about tortillas. Clint thought he was, anyway. It was hard to tell.

Suddenly though, mid-sentence, Wade stopped what he was doing and stared at Tony curiously. “Espera, ¿sabes español?”

There wasn’t much in the way of emotions on Tony’s face as he passed the cigarette back to Clint and shrugged, hands sliding easily back into the pockets of his grubby coveralls. “Eh, así así”

“¿Por qué?”

Before Tony could say anything else in reply, Clint shook his head and flicked the rest of his cigarette to the ground to stomp out. He wasn’t sure what they were talking about, but he’d pretty much had his fill of being in the dark. “Okay, can we please speak English again? Wade, what do you want? I still have four minutes before I go back to scalding my hands off for you.”

Wade turned his deep-brown eyes on Clint and stared him down for a long, silent few seconds. It was a stare that made anyone’s skin crawl whenever Wade turned it on them, though Clint wasn’t going to admit it creeped him out.

When he did finally speak, it was soft but serious, and never once did he blink. “I don’t ask you to scald your beautiful hands for me, Ton of Bar.”

Clint rolled his eyes and huffed. “Yeah, still not how the whole last name thing works, Wade.”

Wade ignored him, which was usually the case, and reached to take Clint’s shoulders in his hands. There were tangles of scars running from Wade’s knuckles,across his arms, and disappearing under the rolled-up drab green sleeves of his shirt. No one really knew where all Wade’s scars had come from, in fact, no one actually knew where Wade himself had come from. Clint had asked him once and got a typical Wade answer, “ _Here, there, everywhere, nowhere. Do you like authentic Mexican cuisine_?”

“There is scuttlebutt going around, Clinton.”

“Scuttlebutt’s for on ships, Wilson,” Tony quipped, half-distracted by some little gizmo he’d brought with him from the shop. “What have you heard ‘round camp you think is important enough to share with us?”

Wade glanced over his shoulder at Tony, settling his nerve-wracking thousand-yard stare on Tony this time. Tony never even glanced up from his gizmo.

“I have heard,” Wade let the words flow like molasses as he turned his head back to Clint slowly, “that we’re going to be getting a new pilot. And the tittle-tattle is that he’ll be bunking with you two.”

Clint blinked and raised an eyebrow as Wade released him. Huh. A new roommate might prove to be interesting. Hopefully he at least had a sense of humor. Could be fun.

Wade turned once he let go of Clint and grabbed for whatever it was Tony had in his hand. It was something with wings, but propellers attached to the tops of the wings instead of the front like the bombers were. Who knew what crazy things Tony was trying to dream up.

When the toy was pulled from Wade’s reach and Tony was on the other side of the wash basin, Wade folded his arms across his chest and huffed in a pout. “You do know that means you’ll have to stop canoodling your playmate in your barracks, now, right?”

“My what?” Tony’s voice jumped an octave and Clint had to fight not to bust up laughing.

“You’re going to have to stop necking with Bruce in our barracks if we get this new pilot for a roommate.” He explained, slapping his hand across Tony’s chest as he moved back to washing dishes.

Tony sputtered and gaped, for once at a loss for words.

“Alas, my sweet prince,” Wade sighed deeply and he stepped up to the other side of the basin to stare across at Clint longingly, “we too shall have to take our love affairs elsewhere.”

Clint only quirked an eyebrow as he scrubbed harder at a particularly stubborn pot.

“Wade, I already told you. I’ve already been promised to Tony if things don’t work out between him and Bruce. And even then, you’d have to fight someone far higher up than yourself to get a chance at my heart. We’ve talked about this.”

“Ach!” Wade scoffed, his eyes narrowed. He turned to glare off across the camp as if trying to pick out the mystery person Clint was talking about. “Yes. The one who stole your heart from me. Tell me their name and I will fight them for our love!”

“Maybe later, Wade,” chuckled Clint, a small, amused smile tugging at his lips.

Beside him, Tony made a small noise Clint had learned meant the man was about to go off on something probably random, and most definitely off-topic. The random topic changes were a Godsend whenever Clint felt what little sanity he had left starting to slip.

True to form, what popped out of Tony’s mouth had absolutely nothing to do with anything they’d just been talking about. “We need to have a barbeque.”

Both Wade and Clint turned to look at him.

“A what?” asked Clint.

“A barbeque,” answered Tony. “You know, those things people have back in the States for the 4th of July? Lots of good food and music and all that jazz. We need to do it. Have our own 4th of July barbeque.”

Clint looked back down to the pot that finally came clean and dropped it into the rinse water. “Using what? Our rations?”

“Real food. Hamburgers, ballpark dogs, maybe some steaks.”

Steaks? Clint laughed out loud, his eyebrows jumping to his hairline. Nevermind Wade being crazy, Tony had officially cracked if he thought he was going to get something other than military-issued field rations out there to them. Not unless he did some palm-greasing and seriously unethical things around town to get food like that.

“Right, and just where are you going to get all that stuff, huh?” Clint tossed another pan into the rinse water and grabbed for the last of what was in the basin.

Tony reached to pinch Clint’s cheek, making Clint duck and swat at him. Water and soap suds sprayed through the air as Clint yelped in protest.

“Oh my little butterball, don’t you worry where or how I’m going to get the stuff,” Tony cooed, pulling away with a gentle slap to Clint’s cheek. He turned his eyes on Wade, who was still leaning on the wash basin across from Clint. “The only question is: if I can get the stuff, can you cook it and not poison anyone in the process?”

Wade stood upright and Clint had to hide his snort of laughter at the indignant look on Wade’s face. There’d been an incident a couple of weeks ago where a bottle of something inedible had been used accidentally in place of an ingredient for sauce. The end result hadn’t been pretty. At least twenty-five guys were violently ill, while about fifteen more were maybe just a little bit paralyzed for a little while. From what Clint heard about it, he was glad he’d missed dinner that night.

“That was an accident!” cried Wade, pointing his finger at Tony accusingly. “I am a _wonderful_ cook! Everyone knows I’m a wonderful cook! And I’m a Goddamned delight! You get me the chops, I’ll make sure you don’t get the hops.”

Clint’s chin dropped to his chest as his shoulders shook in silent laughter. God, how had this become his life? He’d waited twenty-five years to find a family, a few times he thought he actually had, and yet it was only since he’d been transferred to the 187th that Clint finally felt like he was home. Like he’d finally found the family he’d been looking for. And they were all completely and utterly insane. Even Coulson had to be insane if he was in charge of these idiots.

The smile on his face wouldn’t budge as Clint continued to listen to Wade and Tony bicker. At least it was nice to have some entertainment while he washed the last of the lunch dishes.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So very very many thanks to a-tardis-at-hogwarts on Tumblr for helping me get the Spanish right above. I've included the basic English translation here, in case anyone was interested in what they were bantering: 
> 
> Wade: "My friends! You are here!"  
> Tony: "Where the hell else would [we] be?"  
> Wade: "Mexico. Where the girls are so pretty, and all the tortillas you can eat."  
> Wade: "Wait, you know Spanish?"  
> Tony: "Eh, so so."  
> Wade: "Why?"


	10. Chapter 10

 

It didn’t take long at all before the entire base was buzzing about the taste of home Barton, Carbonell, and Wilson were going to be serving up in two weeks’ time. Phil had nothing against the plan, in fact he thought it was a damn great idea, just the morale boost everyone needed. Which was why, when he’d gone around camp for three days listening to what everyone was saying about it, he decided to seek them out.

Barton -- Phil was still not allowing himself to think of the Lieutenant as anything but that -- had been released from his duties for the day an hour or so before, and after a quick check of the barracks, Phil found him laying out next to the mechanics’ hangar. He was sprawled on his back beneath the wing of a P-51, one knee bent up and the other foot crossed over it as he waved one hand towards Carbonell in a vague referencing motion. One that brought the mechanic out from what he’d been working on to point a ratchet in Barton’s face.

Phil wasn’t sure what they were talking about, but the easy smile that was spread across Barton’s face as he stared up at Carbonell was infectious. The two of them were so relaxed with each other that if Phil didn’t already know Carbonell was involved with Banner, he’d almost assume there was more than friendship there between them.

Stepping closer, Phil paused when he finally heard what they were talking about.

“No, it’s brilliant! Brucie-kins and I can come up with some fireworks! We’ll use some old casings and we’ll figure some way to pack firecrackers. It’s perfect!”

Phil rolled his eyes and spared a glance skyward. Large, white puffy clouds drifted aimlessly above his head and Phil had to resist the urge to cross himself as he heard Carbonell’s plans. Good Lord, they did not need him blowing himself up with homemade fireworks.

He took a step closer after composing himself and cleared his throat. “Given the current state of warfare we’re in,” Phil started, surprising both Barton and Carbonell, “I don’t think fireworks would be such a good idea. Pretty sure the Germans are providing enough of those on their own, don’t you, gentlemen?”

Barton’s eyes went wide as he scrambled out from under the wing of the plane and put a good six feet distance between him and the machine. “I wasn’t touching the wing, Major. I was just looking.”

“You know what they say about people who protest too much, too quickly,” Phil quirked an eyebrow at Barton and watched as he tried to stammer for words. Phil shook his head and waved at him. “Relax, Barton. I know you weren’t touching the plane. That’s not why I came over here.”

“You came over to put the kibosh on our plans, didn’t you?” Carbonell asked, not even bothering to look up from where he was wiping his hands on a rag.

Why did people always assume Phil didn’t like to have fun? He’d never given them any reason to think that, and yet, they all did.

“No,” he answered, “Not on the whole thing at least. Just the fireworks. These people deal with us flying our planes at all hours and live in constant fear of bombs going off on their homes. I’d rather we didn’t send them into a panic because of fireworks.”

Carbonell slowly lifted his head. “So, we can still have our barbeque?”

“Oh please,” Phil allowed a small smile to pass his lips, “be my guests! I’ve been hearing a lot of talk about it, that’s why I came to find you fellas. I wanted to hear from you what all you had planned.”

Barton and Carbonell glanced at each other before Barton shrugged and slipped his hands into his slacks pockets. “Well, nothing much right now. I mean, Tony’s gonna try to get us some real food for a change, some hamburgers and ballparks, ya know, that sort of stuff. We were thinking about hiring a band to come play,”

“Yeah, but,” Carbonell smirked as he motioned to the area around them, “then we figured it might be in poor taste to hire a bunch of Brits to come play 4th of July music at this shindig, given the fact we sorta beat them an’ all.”

Phil tried very hard not to laugh at that, even though he was sure it was evident in his eyes. Lips pressed together, he nodded. “Right. Right. And having a 4th of July celebration on English soil isn’t poor taste?”

“Well yeah, but we figured if it was just the party, none of them had to know about it.” Barton shrugged easily, tossing a loose smirk Phil’s way. “We’d even thought about having a ballgame, if you’d like to play?”

There was a sincerity in Barton’s eyes that made Phil take pause. After the night in Phil’s barracks patching Barton back up, Phil had revealed a bit more about his past than he’d ever planned to do. At least to any of his men. Barton knew now that baseball was something Phil had enjoyed when he was younger, and yet there was something there that almost seemed to be giving him an out if he didn’t want to be involved in the festivities. Not in what Barton had said, but in the understanding look that had been there and gone.

Phil nodded once. “I’ll think about it, thanks.”

From where he stood on the side, Carbonell glanced from Phil to Barton and back again. He ducked his head to cover the laugh trying to escape and hid it under a terribly obvious cough. Phil glanced off to him with both eyebrows raised.

“Are you going to survive, Lieutenant? That sounded like some cough.”

Carbonell shook his head, still trying to fight a grin. “No, sir. Nope. We’re good here. Just a bug in the throat.”

Yeah, Phil just bet it was.

Shaking his head fondly, Phil started to turn to leave, only to pause and look back over his shoulder again. “Oh, one other thing. I’m sure you’ve heard that we’re getting a new pilot in?”

“Yeah, Wade thought his name was like Bram Humlow, or something?” Barton scrunched his face as he glanced to Carbonell.

“I thought he said it was Rock Blowhum.”

“No,” Barton shook his head, “Pretty sure that was just Wade telling you to blow him.”

Carbonell made a disgusted sound as he took three steps backwards. “Oh! Yuck! That’s just…”

Phil held up his hand, silencing them both before they could go off on their little teasing tangents. Once he was sure he had their attention, Phil sighed. “His name is Brock Rumlow, and I’m assigning him to your barracks. I want you two on your best behavior and to play nice. Show him around.”

“Kiss his ass,” Barton said with a nod.

Beside him, Carbonell made a face. “Ugh. I don’t kiss ass.”

“That ain’t what Banner’s said.” Barton tossed a wink at Phil and smirked while Carbonell squawked in protest.

“Brucie would never kiss and tell! You’re a horrible lying liar, Barton!”

Phil felt the tips of his ears heat at Barton’s quick but obvious flirtations. Ducking his head, Phil turned for real and started back off across the camp. He had paperwork to do, phone calls to flight command to make, or...something, anyways. Something that wasn’t standing around watching Barton and Carbonell play and joke with each other. Phil had already allowed himself to get closer to Barton than he’d originally planned to get, he couldn’t fall any further. There were a lot of lives under Phil’s watch, a lot of men counting on him to make sure they made it home to their loved ones, he couldn’t let himself get so close to any one man in particular. Even if Phil had finally started to come to the realization that there wasn’t much of anything else in the world he wanted more than to get as close to Barton as he possibly could.

Clint watched as Coulson wandered off. It’d been a couple of weeks now since Clint was banished to KP duty, and in that time he and Coulson had hardly spoken at all. Clint didn’t realize how much he’d come to look forward to spending time with him and talking with Coulson until then. When Coulson had shown up to talk to them about the party, and about the new guy coming in, Clint couldn’t hardly tear his eyes away from him. His traitorous mind kept going back to when Coulson’s fingers were running across his skin, and the warmth of his breath as he tugged the wrap around Clint’s chest. It wasn’t meant to be anything other than Coulson being helpful, Clint knew that, but still those thoughts got Clint through a couple of long and lonely nights since then.

“God, you’re pathetic.”

Clint startled out of his thoughts when Tony tossed the dirty rag at his face. He stared at it for a minute before looking up to meet Tony’s amused smirk. “What?”

“You two!” Tony waved the ratchet off in the direction Coulson had gone off in, “You’re both pathetic! The way you two kept making puppy eyes at each other just now? Jesus.” He shook his head and laughed. “I thought I was going to have to shove you two into a closet and lock it for a while.”

“You’re out of you mind, Carbonell,” Clint tossed the rag back at Tony and moved to lay back under the wing of the Mustang Tony had been working on repairing. “We weren’t making puppy eyes at each other.”

“Right, sure you weren’t,” laughed Tony as he turned his attention back to the plane. “Don’t think Wade wouldn’t try to fight Coulson for your hand. The kid’s crazy enough, he’d actually do it.”

Clint sighed, shaking his head and dropped his arm over his eyes. Yeah, Wade really was crazy enough to try it, but Clint was pretty sure it wouldn’t matter anyway. Coulson would probably just stare at Wade like he’d officially gone insane, and then turn to go fill out Wade’s Section Eight forms to get him shipped back home in a straitjacket or something.

Hell, Clint had a better chance shooting down ten German’s in one day than he ever did of being with Coulson.

* * *

It was well into the evening when Clint stumbled his way back into the barracks, fully intent on falling into his bed and sleeping for what few hours he could before he’d need to be back up and heading off for breakfast duty again. Falling asleep with his dog was about the only thing Clint was looking forward to right then. In fact, he was expecting his mutt to greet him at the door, but instead he found Lucky standing guard just inside, his fur raised and lips curled back while someone moved around the room quietly. Clint watched the man for a minute, something itching at the back of his neck, but it wasn’t until the guy started nosing through Tony’s stuff that made Clint let it be known that he was there.

“Pretty sure it ain’t polite to go nosing around in other people’s stuff while they aren’t around,” Clint said.

He was leaning against the doorframe, one hand wrapped in the fur at Lucky’s neck as he stared the new guy down. At least, he was going to assume it was the new guy, Clint sure as hell didn’t recognize him. The man was about Clint’s height, maybe just a little bit taller, with dark short-cropped hair and a physique that definitely screamed that he wasn’t just some Italian beanpole when he wasn’t flying planes.

And for a moment, the guy look ready to throw a knife at Clint. It certainly didn’t earn him any friendly points. Which was fine, that didn’t bother Clint at all. He was at least slightly used to having knives thrown at him, after all. And when the new guy didn’t make an attempt to move or defend himself, Clint let his face fall into what people had long ago dubbed his ‘murder face’.

 _That_ got the guy moving.

“Heh, sorry,” he laughed, voice kind of low and gravelly. “Wasn’t meaning to intrude. Just figured I’d try to find something out about my new bunkmates.”

He stepped forward, hand extended out to Clint, but drew up short when Lucky lurched towards him barking and snarling. His dark eyes shot down to glare at Lucky and he took a half step back. “That’s some mutt you’ve got there.”

Clint shrugged, shoving himself off the doorjamb. He gave Lucky a quick scratch behind the ears and nudged him along to the bed. “He’s a good dog. Just doesn’t like people poking their noses in places they don’t belong.”

“Right, sorry ‘bout that.”

Again, Clint shrugged. “Forget it. You’re the new guy, right? Burnlow?”

“Rumlow,” he answered with just a small tic working at his jaw.

“Oh right,” Clint nodded, “Rumlow. Sorry ‘bout that. It’s been a long day. Lieutenant Clint Barton.”

Again Rumlow extended his hand, this time Clint took it and gave it a firm shake. “Lieutenant Brock Rumlow. Just transferred in from the 329th.”

Clint dropped himself down onto his bed with a quiet groan. If he never had to stand hunched over another wash basin for as long as he lived, it’d still be too soon. He glanced up as he unlaced his boots and dropped them to the floor. “Why’d you transfer out of there? I hear they see a hell of a lot more action than we do.”

Rumlow’s shoulders hunched and lowered as he leaned against the wall, arms crossed over his chest. “Wasn’t by choice. The C.O. and I didn’t exactly see eye to eye, ya know?”

Clint nodded. Oh yeah, he could relate to that. “Well, you shouldn’t have too much trouble here. Major Coulson’s a standup guy. Just don’t go pushing too many buttons or you’ll wind up working KP for a month.”

Across the main aisle, Rumlow gave a half-hearted laugh before pushing himself off the wall and motioning towards the two empty beds on the other side of the room. “So, who’re our bunkmates?”

Propped up on an elbow, Clint waved towards the bed kitty-corner from him. “Across from you is Banner. Good guy, pretty quiet. Usually has his nose stuck in a book of some kind. Over here, across from me, is Carbonell. He’s one of our mechanics. Great guy, kind of eccentric, but a great guy.”

“Carbonell?” Rumlow asked, head tilted.

Clint hummed and nodded as he dropped back into his pillow.

“Anthony Carbonell?”

Slowly, Clint lifted his head to stare at Rumlow. The itchy feeling on the back of his neck had returned. This time it was slightly harder to ignore. “Tony. Yeah. You know him?”

Rumlow glanced away from Tony’s bed and looked back to Clint. There was a small grin tugging at the corner of his mouth and a glint in his eye that Clint couldn’t quite place.

“Only of his reputation in the Pacific Theater. Lots of broken hearts left behind. He’s kind of a legend down there.”

“Yeah, well,” Clint yawned, stretching his arms out to the sides before letting them drop. “Don’t let him hear you say that. He doesn’t need a bigger head than he’s already got. Sides, he and Banner are pretty damn close, so there’s not that many broken hearts dropping around here, these days.”

“Close?” The sneer in Rumlow’s voice was unmistakable. “How close?”

Clint dropped his arm down off his face and curled his hand into Lucky’s fur again. Great, just what they needed in their barracks. A queer-hater. Boy, was Rumlow in for a surprise when he found out he was in probably the queerest unit to cross the seas. That weren’t Navy boys. Still, Clint was willing to give him the benefit of the doubt, and just ignore the question.

“Listen, Rumlow, no offence, but I gotta be up at 0300. I need to get some sleep. So why don’t you just—“

Rumlow nodded, though did steal another glance off towards Bruce and Tony’s beds before he started for the door. “Sure. No problem. I’ll go wander the base. It was nice meetin’ ya, Barton. And that’s a gorgeous dame, you’ve got there.”

Clint looked over his shoulder to his nightstand where the lone picture of him and Bobbi sat. He stared at it for a few seconds before glancing back to Rumlow with a slow nod. “Yeah. Thanks…”

It wasn’t until Rumlow left the barracks that Clint grabbed the picture and sat up. He was almost certain, no, correction, he was _definitely_ certain that the picture had been buried in the bottom of his nightstand drawer. He hadn’t taken it out to look at it in over a month. Hadn’t had any reason to. Which meant Rumlow hadn’t just gone snooping around harmlessly.

Jesus, was Clint going to have to start keeping all his stuff locked tight in his footlocker now? He stuffed the picture back where it had been and laid back down, curled up on his side to stare down at Lucky.

“If he touches my stuff again,” Clint mumbled, reaching down to scratch behind Lucky’s ears, “bite his ass.”

Lucky ‘whuffed’ his answer as he laid his head down on his paws and drifted off to sleep. It wasn’t long before Clint followed the mutt’s example.

* * *

 

Whether by design or just sheer luck, Clint didn’t see Rumlow again the next day. At least not while the guy was awake. He was asleep when Clint left to go work the breakfast shift, and long gone by the time Clint stumbled back into the barracks to pass out. The same for the day after, and the day after that.

It wasn’t until Rumlow had been there four days that Clint finally caught sight of him again. Clint was sitting under a shade tree, taking a break from dishes, when Coulson’s latest relay team came in for a landing. He watched as one-by-one the P-51’s touched down and rolled easily to their line up positions in the grass. No one was belching smoke or flames, or trailing oil behind them. Either it wasn’t an eventful relay, or everyone managed to get out unscathed.

As the pilots assembled in front of their planes, everyone with bright smiles and adrenaline-fueled laughter, Clint got the feeling that they’d all managed to avoid getting damaged in a firefight. Each guy had a turn slapping Rumlow on the back, congratulating him on a successful first run with them, and even Coulson smiled at him in approval. And the little jackass new guy was just pompous enough to salute Coulson. A _real_ salute! The guy needed to be moved into Ward and Fitz’s quarters. Clint was sure they’d get along wonderfully.

“I don’t like him.”

Clint startled at the voice suddenly piping up behind him. Twisting his head around as he scrambled to his feet, he blinked. Bruce and Steve were both standing there, staring off at the flight line and watching as the pilots made their way to the equipment storage to put their flight gear away.

There was only one person they could be talking about.

“Rumlow?” asked Clint.

Bruce nodded silently while Steve crossed his arms over his wide chest. There was a frown etched across Steve’s usually boyish face that looked so out of place on him, and it was almost enough for Clint to feel guilty for things he didn’t even do.

Steve tilted his chin up slightly before taking a breath and looking to Clint. “There’s something off about him. And not off like you and Carbonell.”

Clint rolled his eyes good naturedly and shrugged. Yeah, okay, he and Tony were pretty off, there was no denying that and everyone in camp knew it.

“How do you figure?” Clint glanced back over his shoulder to watch Coulson give Rumlow a pat on the shoulder before heading off for his office. Clint had his own thoughts on what made Rumlow one of his least favorite people, though he doubted it was for the same reasons the others had.

This time, it was Bruce who answered. “He keeps asking a lot of questions. Strange questions.”

Steve nodded in agreement. “And he seems to take a lot of interest in things that are really none of his business.”

With his back against the tree again, Clint stuffed his hands in his pockets. Okay, so, maybe his reasons weren’t all that different after all. “What kind of stuff has he been asking?”

“Well, he asked me just how close Tony and I were.” Bruce ducked his head slightly. The poor guy was quiet and withdrawn enough on his own, he didn’t need some new guy coming in and questioning his relationship. “I didn’t really know how to answer him, so I said we were close. Good friends. Don’t think he really liked that answer. Then he started asking me about Tony, what I knew about him, where he was from. Things like that.”

“That doesn’t sound too weird,” Clint shrugged, deciding to play Devil’s advocate. “When I met him I told him who you and Tony were and he said he knew about Tony’s reputation in the Pacific Theater. Sounds like he’s a fan of Tony’s playboy ways.”

Steve shook his head. “I don’t know. I just know that I overheard him yesterday talking to Slade, and heard him ask if everyone in this squadron were ‘fucking nellies’. Those are his words, not mine.”

Clint’s back stiffened a bit at that. “Did someone tell him only at night and twice on Saturdays?”

Oh sure, being queer wasn’t exactly an uncommon thing, it was even pretty generally accepted. It just wasn’t liked a whole lot, by a lot of people. In fact, queers were right up there on Hitler’s “Abominations” list. Just about even with the Jewish population of the world. It always made Clint feel so warm and fuzzy inside. Except, not.

Bruce’s dark eyes danced with concealed laughter as he hid a chuckle behind his hand. He glanced from Clint to Steve, and then out across the grass towards the mechanics hangar. Tony must have wandered out for a smoke break.

“I don’t find that very funny, Barton.” Steve refolded his arms across his chest and pinned Clint with the same frown he’d had on his face earlier.

Rolling his head back, Clint groaned, “Oh come on, Steve. Look around you. You know as well as I do, finding a straight guy in this outfit is about as likely as finding a hundred-dollar bill on the sidewalk. It happens, but not often enough.”

“He’s got a point, Steve,” Bruce shrugged.

Clint grinned and nodded his thanks to Bruce. “Thank you. Yes. I do have a point. And not just the one at the top of my head.”

“Either one of them.”

“Jesus, Bruce!” Clint’s eyes widened and he reached out to shove at the smaller man’s shoulder. “It really is always the quiet ones.”

Bruce blushed and shook his head. “No, I think Tony’s just been doing a good job of corrupting me.”

“Could be. I hear he’s good at that.”

“Can we get back on the topic, please?” Steve’s stern voice cut through Clint and Bruce’s light banter like a knife.

Pushing himself off the tree, Clint rolled his shoulders. “What topic, Rogers? So the guy is a queer-hater and just happens to be surrounded by ‘em. This ain’t new. I vote we just leave him alone and don’t start any fights. We’ll just keep an eye on him. If he starts doing anything really weird, we’ll talk to Coulson about it. Okay?”

Bruce and Steve exchanged glances and quiet nods, even though Steve looked less than thrilled with the idea. Or it could have been because he was a Captain, and was basically just told what to do by a Lieutenant. Except, Clint didn’t hear him making any objections about it, either.

With a heavy sigh, Clint shook his head and took a step closer to them both. “Believe me, I don’t like the guy either. I don’t trust him, and neither does Lucky. But if we jump the gun and go on a witch hunt after him without proof he did anything wrong, except for being a fairy-fighter and having some weird hang up on Tony, then we’re no better than the Nazis. Right?”

Bruce mumbled a quiet agreement, while Steve continued to just stare at Clint. His jaw ticked and clenched before, finally, he dropped his shoulders and deflated about two sizes.

“I hate it when you’re right, Barton.”

Clint smirked and huffed a half laugh. “You’re not the first, Rogers. You won’t be the last. Now if you’ll excuse me, gentlemen. I have lunch hash to start dishing out.”

 


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I do not own the skit "Who's On First". But I absolutely had to work it in here.

 

July 1943

“I don’t know how you pulled it off, Tony,” laughed Clint while he stared wide-eyed at the crates filled with assorted meats and goodies from back home. Carefully packaged and shipped homemade pies, and even a cooler filled to the brim with glass bottles of Coca-Cola and popsicles. Somehow, as promised, Tony had been able to get them everything they needed for a 4th of July celebration in less than a month’s time. It was incredible.

All around them, the festivities were in full swing. Fitz had rigged a radio up to the camp speakers and had found an Armed Forces Radio station that was playing all the songs from home, while an impromptu game of volleyball had been struck up in one of the fields near the main runway. Streamers and ribbons of red, white, and blue decorated the control tower and dining hall, where Wade was busy fixing up all the food Tony had gotten them. Not far from the barracks, a small stage was set up where a costume contest would be held later, as well as the crowning of “Mr. America”.

It was a nice party, overall, and an excellent way to relax and forget that there was a war going on for a while. Nearly everyone was taking advantage of the much-needed break, and Clint had even seen Coulson wandering around without a tie on, and with the first three buttons of his uniform shirt undone. It was damn near indecent! Well, at least for Coulson it was. Not that Clint was complaining, because he wasn’t. He just had to keep from trailing after him with his eyes so Tony didn’t give him shit again for staring after Coulson.

Besides, there were others who were dressed in a lot less. Quite a few pilots were in their swim trunks, some with and some without their shirts on, running around with buckets of water to toss on each other. Clint was one of the ones wearing just his trunks, while most of the other guys chose to wear their slacks and just an undershirt. And then there was Tony, who looked every bit like a Hollywood star on vacation as he lounged around in his trunks with his bright red tropical shirt wide open, and a bottle of soda dripping with condensation in hand.  

From his lounge chair, Tony grinned, pushed his sunglasses up the bridge of his nose, and tipped his head back to take in the sun. “I know people who know people. It wasn’t that hard.”

Clint rolled his eyes. Tony was definitely one unique guy, one minute he'd be going on about how great he was, the next he'd turn around and wave things off as if it was nothing -- like he didn't want any kind of special recognition. He was like a puzzle, with a couple of the corner pieces missing.

"So how come you're not off dragging Bruce away to the woods or something?" asked Clint as he brought his own soda bottle up to his lips and pulled a long sip from it.

Tony huffed, shaking his head. "He's on patrol right now. Won't be done for another couple of hours."

“At least he’ll be done before dark. You two can go sneak away then.”

“Oh, I plan to.” Tony grinned, wiggling his eyebrows above his glasses. “What about you, though?”

Clint’s brow wrinkled as he glanced back at Tony. “What about me?”

Tony propped himself up on his elbows, soda bottle dangling between two fingers. There was a mischievous smirk playing on his face that Clint wasn’t so sure he liked seeing. Usually it meant Tony had just come up with a great prank to play on someone, but this time it was directed straight at Clint and it hit him like a lead weight to the stomach.

“You planning to drag You-Know-Who off somewhere dark and quiet later and do something about your damn crush?”

“Dammit, Tony,” Clint cursed. He turned, chucked his empty bottle into the garbage barrel a few feet away, and tried not to give him any kind of answer. No, Clint hadn’t planned to do anything. He hadn’t even really planned to talk to Coulson. At least, not unless Coulson _wanted_ to talk to him, but lately it seemed like every time Clint looked around, Rumlow was right there alongside Coulson, trailing him like some damned puppy.

Tony grinned and sat up fully, his legs straddling the foot rest as he leaned on his elbows. “You’ve got it bad, Barton. Just admit it, and do something about it. Or,” he shrugged and paused to take another drink of his soda before continuing, “admit it and don’t do anything about it, but get the fuck over it and stop lusting after the guy.”

“I’m not _lusting_ after him!” cried Clint.

Tony laughed, his grin growing. “Oh, you are. You are so bad, that you’re lucky Rumlow sleeps like the fucking dead, okay? Cuz last night I got up to take a piss, and when I got back you were definitely havin’ a good night with Coulson in your dreams. All that whispy moaning of ‘Phil... _Phil_...’”

Clint leapt at Tony, fully prepared to tackle him off the chair and strangle him. It was all fun and games; Clint knew Tony was just picking on him, just like Clint would pick on him about Bruce. It’s just the way they were. Still, Tony squawked in surprise and dropped his soda. He caught Clint around the waist and pulled him into his lap, holding Clint there with his arms locked around Clint’s torso to keep Clint’s arms in place. No amount of squirming could break him free. Tony was a lot stronger than he looked, Clint kept forgetting that.

“C’mon now, honey bear! Don’t be like that!” Tony laughed. “It’s the 4th of July. Let’s not fight in front of the kids.”

As if on cue, a flash went off in Clint’s eyes and Peter Parker popped up out of nowhere with his camera. There was a bright grin on the kid’s face as he lifted the camera again and snapped another picture of them, happily. Spots raced across Clint’s vision as he finally wiggled himself free from Tony’s hold on him. He reached out to swipe at Parker, shouting as the twerp danced out of reach and went darting off to try and blind someone else with his flashing camera.

Tony dropped his head back as he laughed, Clint still perched on Tony’s lap and rubbing at his eyes. Damn that kid and his camera.

“I am definitely getting copies of those pictures,” Tony’s laughter kept bubbling up, and only got harder when Clint tossed him a fierce scowl and single-finger salute.

Clint was too busy calling Tony every name in the book to realize when Coulson came to stand behind him. Not until Tony cleared his throat and darted his dark eyes over Clint’s shoulder repeatedly. Clint’s heart rocketed to his throat and his eyes went wide when he realized what Tony was doing. Damn, Coulson needed to wear a bell or something!

Spinning himself around and clear off Tony’s lap, Clint shoved himself off the ground and bounced easily to his feet in front of Coulson, an easy smile on his face. With any luck, it’d be natural enough not to be questioned, though if Coulson’s amused stare was anything to go off of, Clint had failed horribly.

“You two looked comfortable,” teased Coulson, the corner of his mouth twitching up as he tried not to grin. “How does Banner feel about having to share you, though, Carbonell?”

Tony leaned back in his chair again and shrugged. The bastard didn’t even bother to try and wipe the smug look off his face as he tipped his sunglasses down his nose to look over the top of them at Coulson.

“Brucie and I have a very secure and understanding relationship. He knows Barton and I are all talk and no action.” One dark brown eyebrow quirked as Tony turned to look at Clint. “Barton has a very bad habit of being all talk and no action.”

Clint narrowed his eyes at Tony threateningly. He didn’t exactly want to trounce the guy in front of Coulson, but he would if it came down to it. Tony seemed to catch that and turned a bright smirk back to Coulson.

“So Major. How you enjoying the festivities?” he asked innocently.

Coulson’s eyes darted between Clint and Tony for just a moment before he nodded. “I’ve got to say, I’m impressed. I wasn’t sure how you were going to pull it off, but yet,” he paused to look around the base and nod again, “you did great job putting everything together. And I’m sure Captain Rogers appreciates having decent food on his birthday, too.”

“It’s Rogers’ birthday?” Tony sat up straight in his lounge chair. “No foolin’?”

Coulson smirked and shook his head. “No fooling. It really is his birthday.”

Tony stared at Coulson for a full ten seconds, as if he’d grown four more ears on the side of his head, before turning to throw a point at Clint. “That settles it! Now we really do have to crown him and Barnes Mr. and Mrs. America! It’d be unpatriotic not to!”

Coulson scrunched his eyebrows together in mild confusion. It seemed to be his default expression when it came to dealing with Clint and Tony. Especially Tony.

“Sometimes, Carbonell,” Coulson huffed, shaking his head, “I wonder if you’re not just as crazy as Sergeant Wilson.”

Tony lifted his head and smirked. “Hey, we all gotta be at least a little crazy to be over here doing what we do.”

“You’re not wrong,” Coulson looked between the both of them again before he gave a small nod of approval. “And I have to admit, having your particular brand of crazy has been a bit of a reprieve from what we’d been use to around here. Not sure anyone else would have thought to throw a party in the middle of a war and actually be able to pull it off. You’ve both done a great job.”

Clint’s shoulders rolled and squared a bit at Coulson’s praise, and oh Clint was so very aware of how little he was wearing when Coulson’s grey eyes landed on him again. For a second, it seemed like Coulson might have given him the once-over, or it might just have been Clint’s imagination and wishful thinking. Either way, Clint did his best not to shift from foot to foot nervously. He could be smooth, absolutely. Just a smooth and subtle shift of weight as he slid his hands into the shallow pockets of his short swim trunks and no one would be the wiser. Perfect.

 _Barton, you are such a boob_.

Clint tried not to frown at his inner voice that sounded suspiciously like his ex-wife.

He also tried very hard not to follow the single bead of sweat that was slowly rolling down the cord of Phil’s neck. It wasn’t overly hot out, but still warm enough for everyone to be sweating at least a little bit, especially the ones out playing around in the sun. Clint wasn’t sure if Coulson had been out in the sun goofing around like the other guys, but he wasn’t going to object to the more relaxed look on the Major, either.  

The tip of Clint’s tongue darted out to swipe across his suddenly dry lips. Something had to be done to distract his mind before he did something idiotic.

“Hey Coulson, what about that ballgame, huh?” Okay, so inviting Coulson to join in on a game that would definitely get him sweating more wasn’t Clint’s brightest idea. He silently prayed that Coulson would say no, that he didn’t play anymore and would just watch, or that he had other things he needed to do.

Which was exactly why, instead, Coulson answered with a smirk, “I was wondering when that was going to get started. Officers vs. Enlisted?”

 _Well, fuck_.

Shrugging, Clint nodded as casually as possible. “Yeah, sure. That sounds good to me. You gonna play?”

“I wouldn’t have asked if I wasn’t planning on it,” answered Coulson, already moving to roll the sleeves of his uniform shirt up.

Still on the lounge chair, Tony covered a laugh under a cough. He nodded at Coulson and pointed to his shirt. “Ya know, Major. Ya might as well take the khaki off and play in your shirt-sleeves. If you’ve gotta dive into a bag, you’re gonna get your uniform shirt all stained to hell.”

Coulson stared at Tony for a moment. The expression on Coulson’s face was hard to read, but Clint was ready to wrap his hands around Tony’s throat and just ring it until the guy stopped moving for a while. He never gave Tony this much shit about him and Bruce! Of course, then again, Tony wore his affection for Bruce on his goddamn sleeve, and didn’t care one lick about who knew or what they thought about it. And hey, at least Tony’s attraction was returned. Quiet as Bruce was, he did at least occasionally show unprompted affection towards Tony.

Clint held his breath as Coulson and Tony stared each other down, until Coulson finally gave a nod and unbuttoned his uniform shirt the rest of the way. A stiff wind could have knocked Clint flat on his ass as he watched the khaki shirt get tugged out from the waistband of Coulson’s slacks. The shirt hung open, the loose sides catching on the gentle breeze and billowing out around him while Coulson unrolled his sleeves and Clint swore he felt his brain shorting out at the sight.

Above them, a sweet, sultry voice sang to her new lover over the PA, “ _Never thought that you would be, standing here so close to me, there’s so much that I feel I should say. But words can wait, until some other day. Kiss me once, then kiss me twice, then kiss me once again. It’s been a long, long time…_ ”

Where the hell was Parker with his camera when Clint needed him? What he wouldn’t have given to have a picture of Coulson standing there with his shirt hanging open like it was, looking more like just one of the guys than their commanding officer. At least Tony had the decency to look surprised at the fact Coulson really was taking his uniform shirt off. Clint might let Tony survive another day.

The shirt folded carefully, Coulson tossed it to Tony’s lap with a small not-smile he was so good at giving. “Make sure nothing happens to that shirt, Carbonell. Don’t go raffling off my oak leaves or something.”

Tony stared at the shirt in his lap, his mouth hanging open like a gaping fish. It took him a second to shake his head clear again and snap his jaw shut. Finally, Tony snapped off a salute, probably the first real salute he’d ever given. “Oh don’t worry, Coulson. I will make sure nothing happens to your shirt. You boys go play with your sticks and balls.”

Clint shot Tony a murderous look before stalking away. If he didn’t walk away soon, there was no doubt he’d be forced to kill his best friend. And then he’d really be in so much trouble, it just wasn’t worth it. Walking away was his much better option. Besides, if he kept standing there, there was a real good chance after he finished killing Tony, he’d tackle Coulson and do horrible, delicious things to him. His resolve to keep his hands to himself seemed to slip a little bit more each time he was near Coulson.

“Hey, Clint! Don’t forget to bring the bat back!” Tony called after him, the held-back laughter clear in his voice. “We’ll need it for the skit later!”

“Yeah, providing you live long enough,” Clint grumbled under his breath. He tossed a wave over his shoulder, letting Tony know he’d heard him and just kept on walking. There was a baseball game to organize, and Clint definitely needed to hit something right about then. The poor defenseless baseball would have to do.

* * *

 

Agreeing to play in the baseball game really hadn’t been one of Phil’s brighter ideas. In fact, Phil really kind of regretted it. It’d been years since he last played a game, especially one that seemed to follow more of the street ball rules than an actual official ball game. No one had a glove, so everyone had to use either their bare hands or their hats in order to catch the ball, and the bat was more of a wooden rod that Barton and Carbonell had dug up from somewhere.

That wasn’t to say Phil didn’t have fun though, because he did. In fact, his sides hurt from all the laughing he’d done watching Barton argue with Ward over plays, the two Lieutenants going nose-to-nose and Barton even kicking grass at Ward’s feet. Phil’s blood ran fast through his veins when Barton would get caught between two bases after Lang popped a fly ball into left field, and someone inevitably yelled “Pickle!”, which sent both teams into an uproar: enlisted men yelling for their teammates to tag Barton out, Officers screaming for Barton to make a move and dive for the plate.

Still, even though he had had fun during the game, Phil had found it near-impossible to concentrate with Barton being on his team. All that golden tan skin on display, sweat glistening and his sandy-blond hair dark and damp and plastered to his forehead as he stood on third base, clapping and cheering Phil on at the plate. After the first time Phil struck out after he’d glanced at Barton and caught Barton’s grin and wink, Phil tried not to look at him while he was up to bat. It was too much of a distraction.

Being in the infield wasn’t any better. How he’d wound up at second base, he’d never know, but it was incredibly rude and distracting to be placed right behind Barton. Phil’s mouth went dry a few times watching the muscles of Barton’s back twist and bunch and ripple as he pitched. And the way those swim trunks clung to Barton’s body was just as indecent. It was just pure dumb luck that Phil never got beaned in the head by the ball all the times he was distracted by Barton.

In the end, the Enlisted men won over the Officers 10 to 8, and the game would have kept going if they hadn’t lost most of their light from the sun setting. Honestly, Phil was happy that the Officers had lost. The win for the Enlisted men had brightened their spirits and moods and had brought smiles to their faces Phil wasn’t sure he’d ever seen. For just a little while, Phil saw his men as the carefree boys they should have been back home, not the soldiers raining death and destruction down on other men that were just fighting for their own country like Phil’s boys were.

The men should have been home with their families, not wondering if they were ever even going to see their homes ever again. Yet for just one evening, Barton and Carbonell had brought a slice of home to the soggy English countryside and helped their friends remember what it was to have fun. There was nothing Phil could ever do that would be enough to thank them both, and show them just how much he appreciated what they did for the squadron’s morale.

And if the food, music and games weren’t enough, Barton and Carbonell had taken it upon themselves to become a two-man USO show. They stood on the small stage telling jokes and Barton even did a thrilling knife throwing performance. Phil sat at the back of the crowd, a bottle of Coca-Cola in his hand, watching in rapt awe as Barton had thrown knife after knife at dizzying speeds at targets and around poor Parker, always hitting his mark, much to everyone’s surprise. Captains Barnes and Rogers had in fact been named Mr. and Mrs. America, each getting a paper crown, and Barnes a bouquet of flowers. Both had been red-faced at the announcement, but seemed to be in good spirits about the whole thing. Barnes had gone so far as to jump into Rogers’ arms and be carried off stage bridal-style as the other men whooped and cheered and whistled their approval.

Once Rogers and Barnes had cleared the stage, Carbonell came back on to join Barton. Carbonell’s mechanic’s hat sat at an angle on his head, and the rod they’d used for a bat was in his hands. Barton looked him over in mild amusement before giving a shrug.

“Say Tony,” Barton started, his hands stuffed in his pockets as he glanced out across the sea of men in front of them. “You know, this whole thing was a great idea. Wasn’t it a great idea, fellas?”

The men, Phil included, all cheered and clapped while Barton and Carbonell stood on stage nodding.

“Yeah. It was. I’m glad I thought of it. I think we’ve all earned a nice break, and hey! Enlisted guys! Way to go on whuppin’ the Officer’s asses at baseball!” Carbonell waved the ‘bat’ at the crowd and grinned from ear to ear as another cheer went up. He waited for everyone to quiet down again before he turned back towards Barton. “You guys played pretty good though. Looked like you were having a good time out there.”

Barton nodded and grinned. He pulled his hands from his pockets and folded them across his chest. “Ya know, we did. I forgot how fun baseball is. In fact, I had so much fun, I think when this is all over -- when we all get to go home and try to figure out what to do with ourselves without someone bossing us around all the time -- I think I’m gonna start up my own team.”

Phil rolled his lips between his teeth to keep his laughter in. The day before, he’d come across Barton and Carbonell rehearsing skits for the celebration, he knew exactly what was coming.

“Oh yeah?” Carbonell asked. He swung the bat a couple of times before dropping it onto his shoulder.

Again, Barton nodded. “Oh yeah! I even know just the guys I’m gonna use to fill the roster.”

“Can I be on the team?”

“You wanna be on the team, Tony? Well, I mean, I guess that’d be okay. But you’ll need to know who all is gonna be playing with you. So you’ll know everybody when we get there. They’re all friends of mine from back home, and they’ve got these weird nicknames,” Barton paused, allowing Carbonell a chance to jump in.

“Weird nicknames? What like ‘Jumpin’ Joe’ and ‘The Babe’?”

Barton shrugged and gave a half nod. “Well, yeah, sort of. Let’s see here now. So, on first base I figure I know just the guy to put there. So, Who’s gonna be on first -- he’s good, you’ll like him, then What’ll be on second and --”

Carbonell’s response got drowned out as the rest of the squadron realized just what they were about to see take place and burst into laughter. Phil grinned to himself and took another drink from his soda while Barton straight-faced his way through repeating himself only to be cut off by Carbonell again about the first baseman’s name.

“I’m asking you the name of the guy playing first base!” cried Carbonell.

Barton spread his hands out at his sides and shrugged. “And I’m telling you! Who is on first!”

“You’re not tellin’ me nothin’!” Carbonell dropped the bat off his shoulder and let it hit the stage floor.

Eyes wide, Barton gave a half jump back as he exclaimed, “But that’s his name!”

Carbonell grabbed up the bat again. “Who’s name?”

Barton grinned and reached out to slap the back of his hand against Carbonell’s chest. “Yes! You got it!”

Phil laughed as Carbonell threw a small tantrum on stage that could have rivaled any one of Donald Duck’s famous ones. He was still chuckling when Fitz popped up at his side and yanked on his arm.

“Sir?” Fitz whispered, “There’s a plane coming in to land. It…” Fitz trailed off and quickly glanced around to make sure no one was listening before he leaned in all the closer. “It’s _Howard Stark_ , sir!”

“Howard Stark?” Phil shook his head, not sure if he’d really heard Fitz right or not. The accent could make things a little difficult every now and then.

Fitz nodded quickly and pulled on Phil’s arm again. “He’s gonna be landing any minute now, sir. Ward just gave him the clearance himself.”

Phil finished off his soda as he stood to follow. Howard Stark was probably one of the wealthiest men alive, and his genius was known the world over. Last Phil had heard, Stark had returned to the States after helping a select branch of the military in Italy, and was now working on some kind of weapon that would hopefully end the war. So what the hell was he doing coming to their base?

With Fitz in the lead, Phil hastily rebuttoned his shirt and tucked it into his slacks as best he could. The sound of the twin-engine plane could be heard even from across the camp as Stark came in for a landing and was met with only the barest of crews; for the most part, everyone was off watching Carbonell and Barton put on a show.

Ward met them on the runway just as Stark stepped down out of his plane. And it was _his_ personal plane. The _Stark Industries_ logo was painted across the door, and when no one followed him out, it became obvious that he’d flown it himself. Whatever his reason for showing up at the 187th, Phil had the sneaky suspicion it was for a personal matter.

“Mr. Stark?” Phil asked as he took a step forward to meet him. He held his hand out in greeting. “I’m Major Phil Coulson. Welcome to the 187th. I’m sorry I didn’t --”

“Save it, Major.” Mr. Stark shook his head and ignored the hand extended to him. He brushed past Phil and Ward without a second glance. “I’m here to find my son.”

Phil wished he could have been surprised to hear that, but the truth was, he wasn’t. He knew exactly who Mr. Stark was looking for. He’d known from the moment Phil laid eyes on him, Phil’d just decided it was none of his business on why the man had been going under a different name and had let it slide.

He turned and fell into step alongside Mr. Stark. “I’m afraid I don’t know what you’re talking about.” 

“My son. Anthony Stark. I know he’s here, Major, so there’s no use covering for him any longer. Just show me where he’s at so I can drag his arrogant ass back home where he belongs.”

Ward glanced to Phil before looking back to Mr. Stark as they marched off towards the small festival where Barton and Carbonell were just about finished with their skit.

“Mr. Stark, we don’t have anyone by that name here,” explained Ward, his dark eyebrows scrunched together tightly. “I think we’d know if we did.”

The group drew to a stop just on the outside of the crowd. The men were all near-dying of laughter at Barton and Carbonell, and Phil just prayed Mr. Stark would let them finish before he tried to drag his son off the stage.

“Like hell you don’t,” Mr. Stark grumbled and pointed to the stage, right at Carbonell. “I’m looking right at him.”

“But that’s…” Ward trailed off in confusion and turned his eyes back on the stage.

Up on stage, Carbonell looked ready to start swinging his bat at Barton’s kneecaps.

“Whoever the guy is, he’d damn well better get the ball!” Carbonell exclaimed, waving his bat threateningly at Barton. “So Who grabs the ball. He throws it to What, What throws it to I Don’t Know, and I Don’t Know throws it to Tomorrow on the mound. Triple play, right?”

Barton nodded and rocked back on his feet. “Could be. Absolutely.”

Phil glanced to Mr. Stark who was watching the skit with a scowl on his face. Taking a breath, Phil leaned in against Mr. Stark’s side. “Just let them finish this before you haul him off? They’ve put a lot of hard work into making this night special for these men. I’d appreciate it if you would let them finish their skit. It’s almost over.”

Mr. Stark huffed under his breath but remained silent and still, no doubt quietly stewing his anger and frustrations with his son. Carbonell -- Tony Stark -- had a reason for hiding his identity and making his way into the military, Phil was sure of it. He just didn’t know what those reasons were.

“New guy comes up to bat. He pops it up and it’s a long fly ball out to center field,” Carbonell pointed the bat straight out ahead of him, “to Because. Why? I Don’t Know. He’s on third. _And I don’t give a damn_!”

Barton jumped back as both the bat and Carbonell’s cap were thrown to the ground at his feet. He stared at them for a second before looking back up to Carbonell. “What’d you say?”

Carbonell, who’d turned and was ranting off stage to the front row about Barton’s choice of friends back home, spun back to face him. “I said, I don’t give a damn!”

The laughter of the squadron was so loud Phil could hardly hear Barton’s bright and quippy response.

“Hey! That’s our shortstop!”

Carbonell yelled out in frustration and leapt at Barton, chasing him off the stage while the men jumped to their feet in a round of applause. Both Barton and Carbonell stood off to the side of the stage doubling over and hanging off each other as they laughed at their own foolishness. They passed a bottle of soda back and forth between them for a moment before bouncing back up on the short stage to another round of renewed cheers and hollers.

It took nearly a full minute before the men settled down again and let Barton and Carbonell speak. Or rather, let Barton step forward and talk. Carbonell was too busy picking things up off the stage and tossing them off to the side.

Beside Phil, Mr. Stark straightened his shoulders and moved to take a step forward as Barton began to talk. Phil caught Mr. Stark’s arm and shook his head, motioning for him to wait just another minute or two.

“Well fellas, that’s basically it from us,” Barton panted and took a deep breath before continuing. “We wanted to end the night with fireworks, but, it was brought to our attention that we probably see enough stuff exploding each week that we really didn’t need ‘em after all. Besides that,” he paused again and tilted his head as if he were listening for something, “not so far away that we don’t hear the sounds of bombs exploding, people are cowering in fear. The people out here shouldn’t have to be afraid they were being attacked just so we could have some fireworks. Especially not to celebrate our country’s freedom, while this country is fighting to keep its own.”

Heavy silence fell across the men, the easy, carefree, celebratory mood shattered by the reminder that they were there for a reason.

Barton continued after a moment, “We’re kind of the forgotten squadron out here. Our planes have seen better days, and no matter what Wade keeps telling me, I’m not entirely convinced our food isn’t surplus left over from the last war we fought in.”

Chuckles broke the silence and a few men nodded in agreement.

“Which is why,” Barton kept going, reaching out to put his arm around Carbonell’s shoulder and pull him in against his side, “Tony and I figured we’d put this whole thing on for you fellas. Actually, it was Tony’s idea to start with. If it hadn’t been for him, none of this would have been possible, so I say let’s throw a few cheers up for Tony Carbonell.”

More cheers went up at that, and while Carbonell ducked his head and honestly seemed to almost shy away from the praise, Barton continued talking.

“And Wade Wilson, for the amazing job he did on the food! And even Grant Ward! Who built this incredible little stage for us.”

The cheering continued, some men turning behind them to look for Ward and throw a bright, appreciative grin his way. Phil even let half a smile creep up on him as he patted Ward’s shoulder while Fitz stood to Ward’s other side, grinning up at him like he’d hung the moon. Ward looked about as uncomfortable with the attention as Carbonell did.

“And lastly,” Barton grinned and motioned his left hand out towards the back of the crowd where Phil was standing, “I think we all owe our very own Major Coulson a big round of applause for being a nice enough guy to let us throw this party, and for being a good sport about losing the Officers vs. Enlisted baseball game, tonight.”

Phil was glad his face was mostly hidden in the shadows so no one could see the red that was flashing across his cheeks and up the tips of his ears. He did at least give a small smile and nod, a tiny wave towards the stage in acknowledgement. Of course, when he did, Phil saw the way Carbonell went tense and pale beside Barton. Mr. Stark must have seen it too, and taken it as his cue to finally make his move.

As Barton continued to close things out from stage, thanking everyone for their hard work and making the little party a success, Mr. Stark prowled up the edge of the crowd towards the stage. Banner stood at the side waiting, a small but proud smile on his face as he watched his roommates finish up. He startled when Mr. Stark suddenly appeared at his side, and Phil watched as he did a double-take at the man. It was obvious just by looking at the senior Stark that the two men were related.

At least Mr. Stark waited until Barton and Tony were done to strike.

They’d only just stepped down off the stage when Mr. Stark grabbed his son by the arm and started to drag him off away from the others. Banner and Barton both shared confused glances with each other before they started to follow. Barton looked back over his shoulder at Phil as he stepped up with them.

“What the hell’s going on?” asked Barton, motioning off towards Mr. Stark. “What’s he want with Tony?”

Phil pressed his lips together and shook his head. It wasn’t his place to be spilling other people’s secrets for them.

By the time the three caught up to the father and son, Mr. Stark was well into letting his son have it.

“Of all the arrogant, disrespectful, deceitful things you’ve done in your life, Tony, this is by far the worst! Do you have any idea how worried your mother has been?” Mr. Stark demanded, eyes narrowed to dark, thin slits. “She’s been terrified that something happened to you! Just what in God’s name did you think you were trying accomplish here? You know damn good and well that it’s illegal to lie on your enlistment forms! Do you have any idea how many favors I’ve had to call in just to make sure you don’t end up behind bars?” Mr. Stark jabbed his finger hard into Tony’s chest, prodding him back, back, back until Tony’s head thunked against the wall behind him.

Even though he wasn’t going to tell Barton to mind his own business, Phil did draw up short to give the father and son space, and took Barton by the arm to stop him from getting involved. Banner came up along Barton’s other side, watching with a pinched expression on his face, one that made it clear he didn’t like Mr. Stark backing Tony against the wall like he’d done. Luckily, Banner didn’t make any move to interfere. They’d stand by for now, in case Tony needed them, but they wouldn’t get involved directly.

Mr. Stark continued to rail Tony. “Not only have you committed a felony by lying on your papers about your name, but you _bribed military personnel_ to give you a clean bill of health! You risked good men’s jobs just so you could run away from home like a spoiled little boy who couldn’t have his way!”

Phil took a deep breath at hearing that. His eyes darted to meet Barton’s wide and confused stare, a silent question passing between them. ‘ _Did you know that_?’ ‘ _I had no idea_.’ Of the three men standing there watching the fallout take place, Banner was the only one who didn’t look surprised by any of that. Phil could only imagine why that was.

Mr. Stark turned to pace in front of Tony like a caged lion waiting to pounce. “On top of that, you go and drag me into your mess by charging this entire ridiculous soiree to _my name_! Imagine my surprise when I received a phone call from the Army Air Force’s Chief of Staff wanting to know why _I_ had requested _seventy-five pounds_ of ground beef, _forty pounds_ of hot dogs, and _fifteen pounds_ of prime ribeye steaks be delivered to this unit, along with enough Coca-Cola to keep a small army stocked for the rest of this miserable war!”

It was only years of training that kept Phil from choking on his tongue. He’d known they’d gotten quite a bit of food, and that they wouldn’t be running out of soda anytime soon, he just didn’t know they’d gotten that much! With that much food, they’d be eating good for the next few days, at least. Maybe longer if they could ration it out a little bit.

Tony kept his head down, his hands balled into fists at his sides. It was obvious he wasn’t about to try defending himself, or his actions. For the first time in the two months Phil had known him, Tony looked like a scolded little boy who’d disappointed his father, simply by trying to be good. Phil had the feeling this wasn’t the first time it’d happened, either.

With a cough to clear his throat, Phil finally took a step forward in an attempt to defend Tony. “Mr. Stark. While I do agree that Tony shouldn’t have charged any of this party to your name, I have to say that what your son and Lieutenant Barton organized here tonight was anything but a ridiculous soiree.”

Mr. Stark spun to face Phil and leveled him with a murderous glare, his index finger pointed right at Phil’s nose. “I don’t give two damns about what you have to say, _Major_. I want to speak to your commanding officer about all of this!”

Phil’s shoulders straightened, his back stiffening. “Colonel Phillips was killed in action five months ago,” the words felt like glass slicing through Phil’s mouth as he narrowed his eyes on the senior Stark. “I’ve been in charge since then. Like Lieutenant Barton said, we’re a bit of a forgotten squadron. They haven’t bothered to send us a higher-ranking officer yet.”

And Phil figured they probably never would, but he wasn’t about to tell Howard Stark that.

Mr. Stark’s face reddened as he moved to step into Phil’s space. Out of the corner of his eye, Phil saw Barton take a protective step forward, but stopped when he saw Phil’s hand extended out just enough to be noticeable. Phil would be all right. He didn’t need Barton stepping up to cause any more trouble.

“Then why in the _hell_ would you allow any of this to happen?” demanded Mr. Stark.

Phil stood his ground as he met Mr. Stark’s fierce stare with one of his own. “Because these men deserved it. They’ve earned the right to have something _good_ for once in this rotten war. Because your son managed to help bring a little bit of hope and life back into this squadron just by suggesting the party in the first place. Why shouldn’t I have let them have some fun for a change?”

“That young man has been lying to everyone here, from the moment he arrived. Someone should have checked his papers and sent him straight back to the States!” Mr. Stark was nearly nose-to-nose with Phil as he swung an arm back to point at Tony. “He’s not fit to be in any branch of the military! If he’d ever been called to service, they would have marked him 4F! He _bribed_ and _lied_ his way in!”

Before Phil could respond to that, Tony pushed away from the wall of the barracks, fire snapping in his eyes. Even the most laid-back dog could only be kicked so many times before it fought back, and it was clear Tony had finally reached that breaking point.

“Right,” Tony snarled, “because you’ve _always_ been honest with people, haven’t you, _Howard_? You’re the one who always used to tell me how you learned the hard way growing up, that if you wanted to get anywhere in life, you had to do whatever it took. Including lie your way through shit!”

Stark senior spun on his heels and made a grab for Tony’s arm. Tony was faster though. He yanked it out of his father’s reach and shook his head as he took two steps out of the way. Anger and frustration practically radiated off him, hands clenched into tight fists at his side while staring his father down through narrowed eyes.

“You’re just pissed off because I made you look like an idiot in front of backers.” Tony snarled, his lip curled in disgust. “So I blew some of your cash to get these guys some decent food for a change, big deal! You never would have even noticed the money was missing if you hadn’t gotten that phone call!” He exclaimed and waved his arm out towards the decorations still hanging everywhere, unaware of the small group of men standing around to see what all the fuss was about.

For a long, tense moment, no one moved. Mr. Stark and Tony stood locked in a stare down, just waiting for the other to break first. When it seemed like neither of them were going to back down and Phil would have to step in, Mr. Stark squared his shoulders and pointed back off towards his plane.

“You have ten minutes to gather your belongings and get your ass on that plane, Anthony. You’re going home.”

Jaw set, Tony tilted his chin up in defiance. “Like hell I am. I’m twenty-six years old, I’ve been making decisions for myself my whole life. You don’t get to breeze in here now and think you can tell me what to do.” He shook his head and gave a laugh of self-depreciation. “Actually, I’m pretty surprised you didn’t just send Jarvis to come get me. No. No, whether you like it or not, I’m staying here.”

Phil glanced between the two Starks. He waited for a moment before he finally put in his own two-cents worth. “With all due respect, Mr. Stark, Tony is one of, if not _the best_ , mechanics we’ve got. And he’s a damn good soldier.” Okay, so even Phil lied a little. It wasn’t hurting anyone. “We’d hate to see him go.”

Mr. Stark turned his head to look over his shoulder back at Phil. Phil could tell Mr. Stark wanted to keep fighting, keep demanding that Tony do as he was told, but he could also see the resignation slowly creeping in on him. The subtle drop of his shoulders before looking to Tony again, and then away when it was obvious Tony wasn’t going to budge.

“Tony’s safe here, Mr. Stark,” Phil continued, his voice calm and quiet. “He’s not a pilot, his feet never leave the ground unless he’s working on an engine or cockpit.”

Silence once again fell over them, thick with tension as Mr. Stark continued to fume.

“I’m not going home, Dad,” Tony finally said, shaking his head. “Go ahead and yell, or disown me, or whatever, but I’m staying here.”

Cautiously, Phil took another step closer and leveled Mr. Stark with a firm stare. “He’s well looked-after. I can promise you that. So with that said, as commanding officer of this base, I’m giving you a choice not many civilians get to have. Get back in your plane and leave now, letting us deal with Tony; or you can stay the night and fly out in the morning. Without Lieutenant Carbonell. Either way, he’s not leaving.”

The fight slowly ebbing out of him, Mr. Stark heaved a heavy sigh and nodded. It was obvious no matter what he said, or did, or threatened, Tony wouldn’t be leaving with him. No matter when he took off again.

Despite the way Mr. Stark went off on Tony, it was obvious he really did care about his son. Phil could appreciate that. True, maybe Mr. Stark didn’t exactly know how to show that he cared, but he did. He wouldn’t have been worried enough to fly all the way to England just to take him back home otherwise.

“I’ll stay the night here, fly out tomorrow morning.” He finally grumbled, still not quite able to meet his son’s eyes.

Phil nodded once and turned, ready to put the whole matter behind him. “Good. Then as our guest, feel free to help yourself to whatever’s left in the mess hall. I’m sure Sergeant Wilson still has some --”

“Major Coulson!” It was as if Wade had been summoned just by Phil mentioning his name.

The group looked up at Wade’s distressed cry, and Phil swore he was seeing things. Beside him, Phil heard Clint groan and saw him smack his hand into the center of his face. In front of them, still wearing his white serving apron, but having added various other kitchen utensils to his outfit -- a sash across his chest covered in forks and spoons, serving tray in hand like a shield, and at least two large knives strapped to his legs -- Wade stood brandishing his cooking tongs like a sword. He looked every bit the part of a knight ready to challenge someone to a duel.

“Wilson, what are you doing?” Phil asked, his head cocked and eyebrows scrunched together just slightly.

Barton shook his head, scrambling to try and get ahead of whatever Wade had to say. “No, Coulson, I really don’t think you want him to--”

Wade ignored Barton and puffed his chest out, his head held high. “I’ve come to challenge you for fair Clinton’s hand!”

Groaning, Barton sunk in on himself. “--answer that…” he mumbled into his hands.

Phil blinked twice in surprise. What in the hell was Wade carrying on about? Challenge Phil for Barton’s hand? Phil glanced to Barton and could just see the blush creeping up his cheeks in the faint light. Oh. Well. That was interesting and not at all the least bit confusing.

Looking back to Mr. Stark -- who was staring at Wade like the man had lost his mind -- Phil took a deep breath. “On second thought, Mr. Stark,” he said, shaking his head, “maybe you’d better leave tonight after all.”

Mr. Stark gave a slow nod, never once taking his eyes off Wade. “Yeah, I think that’s a good idea.” Slowly, he turned to look back at Tony and his features softened just barely. “I’ll...just tell your mother that you’re fine, then.”

Tony nodded in return, his own face a mask of forced indifference, and dropped his arm across Banner’s shoulders. “Yeah. Sure. Send her my love.” His voice was tight and cold in a strong contradiction to his words. 

With one last nod, Mr. Stark held his hand out apologetically to Phil. 

“Major, I owe you an apology,” Mr. Stark said, meeting Phil’s stare full-on. “And I want to thank you for keeping an eye on my boy. He’s a pain in the ass more times than not,” Mr. Stark paused and gave a small smile, “but he is a good man. When he wants to be.”

Phil nodded, letting his hand drop. There wasn’t anything left to be said, except to make their goodbyes and wish Mr. Stark a safe trip back to wherever it was he was heading back to. As they watched Mr. Stark make his way to his plane, Phil took a deep breath and fought back the extreme urge to yawn and groan, to stretch his already aching muscles in an attempt to ease the tension building behind his eyes. It’d been a long day, and the last ten minutes of it had been enough to take what little wind was left in his sails away

“Gentlemen, I think we’ve had about enough excitement for one night. Don’t you?” Phil asked, looking at Barton, then back to Tony and Banner.

The three quickly nodded in agreement, Tony struggling to hold back his laughter at Barton’s apparent embarrassment. Phil was going to try very hard not to think about why Barton’s cheeks had flushed that soft shade of pink at Wade’s challenge. He was damned enough as it was, he didn’t need to dig himself any deeper by letting his brain run off and wonder why Barton blushed at all.

With another nod, Phil continued, “Then hit the sacks. We’ll deal with clean-up first thing tomorrow morning. And Wilson,” he turned, his face contorted in mild confusion as he stared Wade down. Phil opened his mouth, wanting to say something about the man’s absurdity, but every time he tried, words just seemed to fail him. Reaching up to rub at his forehead, Phil shook his head and moved to start past him instead. “Everyone just go to bed.”

God, Phil hoped this war was over with soon. It seemed like everyone was going crazy, and they were trying to drag Phil down with them. It definitely wouldn’t be a long trip down, not with the way Phil’s traitorous mind kept going back to thoughts of Barton, and especially of Barton playing baseball earlier. No, insanity was definitely just around the corner for Phil, and if he wasn’t careful he was going to run right into its strong arms and never want to leave it again.

 


	12. Chapter 12

 

“Well, Barton,” Coulson’s voice was enough to draw Clint out of his doze under a tree and bring his hand up to shade his eyes. “About had your fill of working with Sergeant Wilson?”

Clint sat himself up fully, legs stretched out in front of him. He’d only just gotten off his shift with Wilson and had barely drifted off when Coulson appeared, like some kind of dream-like angel. Blinking up at Coulson, Clint caught sight of a mission folder in his hand and didn’t even bother to try and hide his smile.

“Oh, yes sir,” Clint answered with a small grin. “Don’t suppose you’re here to finally lift my sentence, are you?”

Coulson tilted his head slightly to one side and gave Clint the once over, as if he were trying to make a decision about something. Clint knew his thirty days were up soon, within the next day or two, and he just hoped Coulson was going to take pity on him by letting him back in a plane.

With a shrug and smirk, Coulson turned to start off towards the briefing shack. “I might be,” he called back over his shoulder. “If you can make it to the briefing in the next five minutes.”

Like someone set fire to the seat of his pants, Clint was up on his feet and jogging after Coulson. There was a half-smirk on Coulson’s face when Clint caught up to him, and he handed the folder off to Clint while they walked shoulder-to-shoulder. It’d been a week and a half since their 4th of July celebration, and during the days between then and now, Coulson had finally started really warming back up to Clint.

Clint opened the folder and let a low whistle breeze out through his teeth.

“Bomber escort all the way into Germany?” Clint asked, looking back to Coulson -- who simply nodded and took the folder back.

“We’re going to need all the pilots we can get. I figured since you’re my wingman now, I’d let you in on what we were doing first.”

Clint wanted to curse that Coulson remembered making Clint his wingman, yet at the same time it almost felt more like an honor than a punishment. So far, this had been the longest Clint had stayed with a squadron without getting into any serious trouble, and maybe being Coulson’s wingman wouldn’t be such a bad thing after all.

They had just stepped up to the briefing shack when Lieutenant Rumlow jogged up to meet them. His dark hair was wet and sticking to his forehead, his uniform damp and clingy across his chest. Rumlow raked Clint over with one glance before turning his attention to Coulson. The man even saluted Coulson.

“Major Coulson, sir,” Rumlow greeted.

Coulson flashed his infamous not-smile and nodded in return. “Lieutenant Rumlow. Just in time for the briefing.”

“Thank you, sir. Sorry I didn’t have time to take a shower and get changed,” Rumlow picked at his shirt and gave a partial shrug. “I was out jogging, lost track of time.”

Clint quirked a brow and leaned lazily against the doorframe of the shack. “Jogging?” he asked, not sounding like he believed him much.

Rumlow’s eyes shot towards Clint’s and he nodded once, sharply. “Yeah. I go running. It helps keep me in shape so that if I ever crash-land in a Nazi-occupied area, I can try to outrun the bastards. What’s it to you, anyways, Barton? You’re just the kitchen help.”

A slow, smug smirk tugged at the corners of Clint’s mouth as he shoved himself off the doorframe and stepped closer to Rumlow. “Hey, be nice, Rim-Slow,” Clint taunted, purposely mis-saying Rumlow’s name as he smacked the back of his hand across the other man’s chest. “I happen to be the Major’s wingman. So it kind of does matter to me.”

It was pretty satisfying to watch the way Rumlow’s eyes went wide and his jaw went slack at Clint’s announcement. Clint thought he saw the corner of Coulson’s mouth twitch, and oh if that didn’t just make Clint’s heart go all aflutter.

Rumlow turned to stare at Coulson, damn near gaping like a dead fish. “Sir,” he started, “I don’t understand. I’m your wingman.”

Clint did very well not to let his eyes narrow and twitch at that. It was no secret he didn’t like Rumlow, the guy was a rat -- always sneaking around and watching everyone. Especially Tony. It was unnerving, and Clint sure as hell didn’t trust him to watch Coulson’s back.

Coulson shook his head, arms crossed over his chest to hold the folder as close to him as possible. The pose reminded Clint of the high school girls he’d see in town as a teen, walking down the streets clutching their books to their chests. Adorable wasn’t a word Clint generally used to describe another man, but it somehow seemed to fit in Coulson’s case.

“Temporary wingman,” Coulson corrected, nodding back to Clint. “Clint was assigned KP for thirty days for going against direct orders. A behavior that I sincerely hope he has learned will get him nowhere.”

When Coulson’s eyes landed back on Clint, Clint snapped to attention and flicked a perfect salute out. “Sir. Yes, sir!”

Coulson rolled his eyes and pushed Clint’s shoulder, prodding him into the briefing shack. “Get in there and sit down, Barton. I have a briefing to start.”

Clint flashed a loopy grin Coulson’s way as he loped farther into the room, taking up a place beside Bruce about three-quarters of the way to the front. It was possible Clint was supposed to sit right up front, now that he was Coulson’s designated wingman, but it was more fun to sit with his friends than to be on display in front of everyone, like some kind of teacher’s pet. Though, if Coulson had ever been a teacher in any of the few schools Clint had ever gone to…

Still smirking, Clint glanced back over his shoulder to watch Rumlow sulk in the back corner. A fierce scowl furrowed across his face and his death glare pointed right at Clint. Clint wiggled his fingers at Rumlow in a mock wave just as Coulson called for everyone’s attention.

 _Let the little rat bastard pout_ , Clint thought to himself, turning back around to pay attention to Coulson’s announcements and instructions. Clint was going to prove to Coulson, and to Rumlow, that he was the one who was better suited and more deserving of being Coulson’s wingman in the air. Clint _could_ fly as part of a team. He’d show them.

* * *

 

Usually when Coulson’s squadron was called up for a mission, it was as a relay escort. They would take their bombers to a designated rendezvous point, pass them off to the next team of fighters, and then head home. That’s what usually happened.

For whatever reason, top brass had decided that the 187th would take a group of bombers all the way into Germany, this time. They would stay with the group, provide defense for them as needed, follow them all the way to the drop site, and then head back to base. From what Coulson had said during the briefing, the last time they went on a mission like this, it cost them the lives of their Commanding Officer, Colonel Phillips, along with four other good men and pilots.

Coulson was determined to make sure that didn’t happen again, and Clint was determined to do his best to help keep the others safe.

The mission was a dangerous one, no doubt about it, but it was also a long one. Two and a half hours to target, two and a half hours back home. Five hours in a cockpit was a long time when you’re sitting on 270 gallons of fuel. Which meant everyone was bound to go a little stir-crazy and get jumpy after a while. Some of the guys would talk about random thoughts that popped into their heads, others would play an _always_ exciting game of Air Eye Spy -- somehow it always managed to be something big and blue, something big and fluffy and white, or something with a propeller -- while Clint chose to sing. After all, it wasn’t like he could fly up alongside Coulson and sit out on the wings to have a nice little conversation with the guy.

“ _Yet today, my love has flown away, I am without my love. Now laughing friends deride, tears I cannot hide, so I smile and say, when a lovely flame dies, smoke gets in your eyes…_ ”

Static popped over the comms when Clint had finished singing.

“Hey Major,” Rumlow called, voice crackling in the static. “Are we going to have to listen to this radio station the whole way there and back?”

Clint glanced out over his right wing. He couldn’t see Rumlow’s plane, the rat bastard was flying towards the back of the group, but Clint did it anyway.

“Well, I could sing the alphabet song, Rumlow, if that’s more to your liking.” Clint snarked back. “Let’s see here now, how did it go again?” Clint tilted his head to the side, eyebrows scrunched in concentration as he started in on the tune, even if the letters weren’t right. “ _U-R-A-D-U-M-B-A-S-S_...wait, no, that’s not how it goes…”

“Barton, I think it’s time to turn your music off,” Coulson chided from the plane directly ahead of him. “Before you get yourself into trouble, again.”

A smirk twitched at Clint’s mouth from behind his oxygen mask. “Will it be major trouble, Major?”

“Barton…” Coulson answered, his tone making it clear that Clint was starting to skate on very thin ice.

Sighing heavily, Clint dropped his head back against the hard metal fuselage behind him and just stared straight up for a moment. Right. He couldn’t fuck this up. He _had_ to behave himself.

“Sorry, sir,” he apologized. “I guess I’m just going a little batty, is all."

They had been in the air for quite a while, the target drop zone wasn't too much further out, but Clint was bored by how smooth everything was going. They'd had a little skirmish when they crossed the Channel into Belgium, but other than that, everything had been quiet. The bombers weren’t doing anything yet, Clint's squadron wasn't doing anything. Those Germans weren’t doing anything…  

Clint’s eyes went wide when he saw the sunlight reflect off the domes of the incoming 109s and he shifted himself in place to get ready. “Whoa, shit! We got incoming, sir! Twelve o’clock!”

Tension instantly filled the air. Clint didn’t have to be near the others to know that everyone just sat up straighter and fixed their grips on their controls. Down the line, quiet curses drifted in and Clint felt his pulse jump up a few notches.

“Do not break formation,” ordered Coulson. His voice stern as steel. “We stay _with_ the bombers. They are our primary concern.”

“Look at ‘em all! There’s gotta be at least fifty of ‘em!” Lang exclaimed.

Clint turned his head every which way, trying to make sure the main group of 109s hadn’t broken off into a smaller distraction group to try and pull them away from the bombers. He did a quick count and held his breath. There weren’t fifty, but Lang wasn’t too far off. Clint counted at least thirty five. Going up against Coulson’s twenty. It wasn’t exactly a fair fight, but then, who said war was fair?

Suddenly, there it was. The break in the German’s formation. A dozen or so of their planes dove down towards the P-51s, only to swerve off at the last second. The distraction group had gone into action, desperate to pull the P-51s away from the bombers so that their buddies would have open season on the American bomber boys.

Coulson’s voice snapped through the comms again, “Do not engage! _Stay with the bombers_!”

Sweat dripped down the side of Clint’s face, tickling against the already-damp hair at the edge of his helmet. He swallowed hard, eyes constantly moving to keep track of the Germans. It wouldn’t take them more than a minute to realize no one was falling for their trick and to regroup, and when they did, hell was no doubt going to break loose.

“What’s the plan, Coulson?” Clint asked, zeroing in on the one plane he thought might be the German’s leader. They were going to have to go on the defense any minute, Clint kind of wanted to at least have an idea as to what they were going to do.

There was a brief silence over the line before, “We wait for them to strike first. When they do, we’ll break into groups. Ice Man, you take blue group and stay with the bombers. Make sure they get to the drop zone. Understood?”

The confirmation came through loud and clear as they prepared themselves for the battle to come.

“The rest of you,” Coulson continued once he’d made sure that the bombers would be taken care of, “are with me and Hawkeye. Do not drop tanks until I say to. We’ve still got a helluva long way back home.”

Clint did a quick check of his gauges. He had plenty of fuel at the moment, but then again, he still had his drop tanks attached. The drop tanks were small fuel reserves that attached to the underside of the plane’s wings; they were what ensured that the pilot would have enough fuel to make the long, round-trip flight. Nice as they were to have around though, they were suicide to keep on the wings during a fight. It was dangerous enough having both primary fuel tanks located in the wings, they didn’t need two bombs strapped to them during a battle just asking to be shot, too.

The group of 109s reformed, taking to an attack formation and moving to a higher altitude. It didn’t take a genius to figure out the Germans were getting ready to dive at them.

“Hawkeye. The bombers are five minutes from their drop zone,” Coulson spoke quietly, but firmly. “So what do you say we keep these Krauts busy for six?”

A slow grin pulled at Clint’s lips. “Oh, yes, sir.”

The promise of a good fight made him wiggle in his seat a bit. Clint flexed his hand around his cyclic and readied himself to start shooting. It’d been a month since he last got to go hunting for Messerschmitts; he was going to greatly enjoy this.

Above them, there was just the subtlest change in the way the sun reflected off the gleam of the 109s before they turned as one and began flying straight at the hoard of bombers and P-51s. A split-second later, the flash of bullets ripped through the sky, followed by Coulson’s command for his group to drop their tanks.

From there, it was organized chaos the likes of which Clint had never seen. The few times he’d been around for any kind of dogfight, it’d been mostly over the 187th’s home turf, and both times against no more than six planes. This was over German airspace, where not only did they have to worry about the 109s in the air, but there was anti-aircraft weapons on the ground trying to take out any American plane they could. Bomber or fighter, they didn’t care, as long as it got an American out of the sky, they’d be happy.

And it only took a minute for the ground teams to realize what was happening above their heads and take action. Bright explosions popped on either side of Clint’s plane, the shockwaves rocking his wings and rattling him around in the cockpit like a marble in a tin can. He fired off short bursts at any German plane that crossed his path, and while he caused a couple enough damage to turn tail and run for home, he’d yet to send anyone spinning to the ground.

Suddenly, Clint lost sight of Coulson’s plane. His mouth went dry and he had to quickly swoop and roll out of the way of a Messerschmitt hell-bent on playing chicken with him, before he could come up again and level off.

“Coulson! Where the hell are you?” Clint’s fear was thick in his voice as he finally plucked the wing off a 109 that was trying to go at one of their bombers.

For a terrifying minute, there wasn’t an answer. Just the chaotic shouts and whoops of the other pilots, tangling around each other over the line. Clint’s heart jumped into his throat.

“Coulson!”

“Hawkeye!” The response was instant this time and Clint let out a breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding. “Ten o’clock high! Let’s try to get some of these bastards to follow us upstairs and away from the bombers.”

Like a rocket, Clint pulled his plane up above the bombers, followed by a handful of Germans and three or four other P-51s. He locked his sights on a 109 trying to chase Coulson down and pushed to go after him. Faster and faster, swooping side to side and finally coming around from the German’s blind spot underneath to blow a hole wide open in his fuselage and throw him off course.

Clint let out a triumphant whoop as he zipped past Coulson’s tail and did a victory roll over top of him. There was only a brief second that Clint was able to see into Coulson’s cockpit, but it was enough time to watch the air rush out of Coulson’s chest and his head to tilt up and watch Clint’s antics.

“Hawkeye, I owe you one,” Coulson sighed in relief, tossing him a thumbs up in thanks. “Wasn’t sure I could shake that guy.”

Clint grinned behind his mask as he leveled off to fly side-by-side for a moment. Glancing through his canopy, he nodded in welcome. “Yeah, well, just remember me when it comes time for recommending promotions. Captain’s pay has _gotta_ be better than Lieutenant’s,” he teased in return.

With Coulson safe to go off after his own target, Clint brought his plane back around to start picking 109s off as they came up to join the fun. He was able to cross one more off, and send another one running before he caught sight of eight more coming at them.

The bombers were nearly to their targets; another couple of minutes and they’d be able to drop their payloads and get the hell turned around. Which meant the 109s were going to be doing anything they could to take the fighters protecting the bombers down. Plumes of smoke from the anti-aircraft guns on the ground could be seen drifting skyward as more missiles exploded in great puffs of red, white and grey around the planes a couple hundred feet below him.

Clint dove to go after the plane he’d pegged earlier as the ringleader and swore imaginatively when Rumlow got between them. It wouldn’t have been so bad if Rumlow had done anything more than just be there to block Clint’s shot, but he didn’t. He just flew on the leader’s tail and stayed there.

“Rumlow!” Clint barked, trying to swoop around to get a better angle. “Either take your damn shot or get the hell out of the way and let someone else do it!”

Silence filled the line for a second before Rumlow finally answered, “My gun’s jammed!”

“Well then move your ass!”

Clint pulled back when the leader’s buddy took interest in him and tried to take him by surprise. He cursed again when he heard the _pink-pink-pink_ of bullets hitting the tip of his left wing and he was forced to break off his attack on the leader.  Clint watched as a second later Rumlow banked hard to the right, just as the leader pulled to the left.

The first of the bombers had already started dropping their loads when Clint heard Bruce shout out in surprise. Most of the German fighters were starting to turn tail and run, but there were a couple stragglers left trying to cause trouble, but no one where Bruce was. At least, not as far as Clint could see.

Coulson called out over the radio, bringing his own plane around to start heading home, “Banner! Are you okay?”

“Not exactly,” Bruce answered back cautiously.

Clint dropped his plane down lower, doing a quick scan of Bruce’s right side, then below on his way to the left side. There wasn’t much damage on his belly, but his top looked like an oversized colander. Coming up along Bruce’s left wing, Clint glanced to his friend and took a deep breath. He could just see a bit of red on Bruce’s shoulder that definitely hadn’t been there when they left base.

“Bruce,” Clint coaxed, tipping his wings a bit to get Bruce’s attention. “Hey Brucie, how ya doin’ over there, Big Guy?”

Bruce turned his head enough to stare through his canopy back at Clint for a moment before looking down to his shoulder. “I’ve...been better...”

The dry, even tone was enough to make Clint huff a small laugh and nod. “I believe that. You gonna survive?”

There was a pause before Bruce finally nodded. “I...I think so. It hurts like hell, but I think I should make it.”

Coulson’s plane dropped to come along Bruce’s right side, no doubt to inspect the damage himself. Clint knew that Coulson would see what Clint saw: a plane that was holding on by sheer spit and sweat. It was going to be tough to get him home, but they would.

“Banner,” Coulson finally said, his voice quiet and calm as ever. “How are your readings?”

“Holding steady right now,” answered Bruce. He tried to reach out with his right hand to tap at the gauges on his control panel, only to flinch and curse when he couldn’t hardly lift his arm.

Clint watched him carefully and felt the slow curl of panic twisting in his stomach. Not only was Bruce Tony’s...well...whatever they were, but he was Clint’s friend, too. And a damn good friend at that. Clint had lost too many people that he’d cared about in the past, he wasn’t about to lose someone else.

Coming to a decision, Clint pulled his oxygen mask free from his face for a minute -- he didn’t need to be wearing it now that they were out of the fight -- and took a breath.

“Hey, Major,” he called, turning his face towards the mask just enough for his words to be picked up. “You lead everybody on ahead. I’ll hang back here with Bruce and keep an eye on him.”

“I’m not leaving you to--”

Clint shook his head, quickly cutting him off mid-sentence. “Coulson. I’m tagging along with Bruce.” He sighed softly and swiped at the sweat trickling down his cheek before tilting his head back towards his mask. “Don’t worry, I’ll get him home. I promised Tony I was gonna bring his boy back to him, and I’m not about to go back on it now.”

Silence filled the comms and Clint could just tell Coulson was glaring at him through Bruce’s cockpit. At least Bruce gave Clint an appreciative little head nod. It may have taken him a little over two months, but Clint finally believed that he wasn’t going to be shoved off onto anybody else if he got into trouble, and that it was okay to open himself up to making friends. Good friends were hard to come by, Clint knew that first hand, so when he found one he did whatever he could to take care of them.

A quiet and resigned sigh finally came over the speaker and Clint knew he’d won.

“What’s your damage status, Barton?”

Clint gave a small smile and shrug. “Well, I’m not bleeding out anywhere, so I’d call that a plus.”

“Barton…”

God Clint loved that tone Coulson got when he wasn’t sure if he should be getting on to Clint for what he just said, or laugh. It wasn’t quite a threatening tone, but it wasn’t really fond either. Maybe more like long-suffering? That seemed about right.

Shaking his head, Clint did a quick check of his gauges again before answering. “Everything’s holding steady, I’ve still got plenty of fuel, and fewer holes in me than Bruce. We’ll be fine, sir. Get everybody else back to base. We’ll be home in time for Wade’s Mystery Meat Surprise.”

From somewhere behind them, Lang’s voice cut through the static with an innocent tone meant to lighten the mood a little, “What’s the surprise?”

“It’s not real meat,” the answer came through in near unison from almost everyone, even Coulson, and drew chuckles out of everyone else.

The long-running joke between the squadron was definitely enough to lift the tension that had been sitting on them since the start of the fight, and some of the fighters even broke away from the group to fly on ahead with the last of the retreating bombers.

Clint watched as Coulson’s plane came up over Bruce’s right wing and hovered just enough above Bruce that Coulson could look down into Clint’s plane. There was a soft expression on Coulson’s face that Clint wasn’t quite sure he wanted to put a name on, but it was clear as day as soon as the oxygen mask was pulled away. Clint met Coulson’s eyes and held the gaze for as long as he dared. Somehow, they managed to hold a silent conversation in just those few scant seconds that their eyes were locked. What was said, Clint had no idea. All he knew was it left his mouth dry and his heart racing, and it wasn’t just the adrenaline from the fight, either.

Coulson’s nod was visible just as he brought his mask back towards his mouth.

“Alright. Be safe, you two. And if it looks like one of you can’t make it home, you land those birds and get somewhere safe to lay low.”

Tipping a salute Coulson’s way, Clint half-smiled to himself. “Yes, sir. We’ll see ya’s back at base, Major.”

Clint wanted to tell Coulson to be safe too. To keep an eye out for any wayward Germans out looking for trouble, and to not get himself shot up while Clint wasn’t there to save his ass. But he didn’t. The spark of whatever charge that went between them a moment ago kept Clint’s chest firmly seized up and barely let him get out as much as he had.

Without another word, Coulson throttled up to meet back with the others, leaving Clint and Bruce trailing behind. Once they were on their way, Clint heaved a heavy sigh and glanced back to Bruce, checking to make sure the poor guy hadn’t blacked out or anything on him. They had two and a half hours to get back to base, and it probably wasn’t going to be easy for Bruce to land with only one good arm, but they’d do the best they could.

“Okay, Bruce,” Clint called over the roar of the engine, “Let’s keep you talkin’ until we get home, buddy.”

* * *

 

It took them twenty minutes longer than everyone else to get back to the British Isles. In that time, Clint had Bruce talking about everything from their childhoods -- which, as it turned out, weren’t all that terribly different, except whereas when Bruce was orphaned he was sent to live with his aunt; when Clint was orphaned, well, it’d ended a lot differently -- all the way to what their plans were for after the war. Bruce was going to go back to the States and try to take up teaching again; Clint didn’t have a clue in the world what he was going to do.

The base was still a good ten miles out when Bruce finally cleared his throat and gave a small curse. It wasn’t often that Bruce swore, so the fact that he did it had Clint’s stomach roiling. He glanced to his left and across his wing. Bruce was shifting in his seat and looking down worriedly.

“Bruce,” Clint called, mask back to his face for the moment. “Talk to me, pal. What’s goin’ on?”

“My...my fuel levels just dropped,” Bruce answered, his voice not quite trembling, but it was clear he was trying to hide his fear. “And...and I think I know where all the fuel’s goin’...”

Clint throttled back to check behind Bruce for any kind of trail. He didn’t see any fuel dripping out behind them, and when he came up and around to check Bruce’s wings again, there wasn’t any liquid shining on the metal.

“I don’t see anything out here, Bruce. Maybe your gauge is just fucked up? We’ll have Tony check it out when we get landed.” Clint shook his head and brought his plane back around to fly side by side again. When he looked back over, he saw Bruce shaking his head.

“It’s not leaking out, Clint,” now the fear was evident in his trembling voice. “It’s leaking in. There’s a puddle on my floorboard. I thought I smelled it a little while ago, but…”

“Why the hell didn’t you say something earlier?”

“I thought I was hallucinating,” snapped Bruce.

It was Clint’s turn to swear. He dropped his head back against the metal plating separating him from the radio components and stared up at the clouds for a second, trying to think. Their original plan was for Bruce to lower his RPMs as much as he safely could, kill the engine and glide down onto the open field next to base on his belly. The pain in his shoulder was excruciating as it was, and he couldn’t hardly grip with that hand because of it, so it was going to be hard just doing that much, trying to do everything required to come in for an actual landing was going to be impossible. Now, even coming in gear-up wasn’t an option. Not with fuel leaking. Bruce and the plane would go up like a matchstick.

Clint swore again and slammed his fist into his canopy. When the glass rattled, Clint looked up at it again, then around the cockpit, and finally at their surroundings below them. God, he was an idiot!

“You trust me, right?”

Bruce glanced across the wings at him and Clint could easily read the confusion there across his face. “What are you talking about? I don’t…”

“Do you trust me, or not, Bruce?” Clint asked, clipping his mask back across his face and flexing his hand around his controls again. He waited through the silence with nerves fluttering in his stomach, before Bruce finally answered.

“Yeah. I trust you.”

“Good. Then throttle up and take her up to escort altitude.”

There was a moment hesitation before Bruce answered him, “But Clint, I don’t have enough fuel as it is. I fly any higher and faster, I won’t make it back to base.”

“You won’t need to,” answered Clint, his palms sweating in his gloves. “Just do it. Now.”

Bruce didn’t ask, and Clint was glad he didn’t, because his plan was kind of half-batshit insane. But it should work fine. At the moment, they were flying over trees, but he could see just beyond that to fields and homes. If they did this just right, no one should get hurt and there shouldn’t be too much damage done to any properties. At least nothing serious.

Pushing the power, Clint climbed higher but fell back to come up behind Bruce. He watched him for a few more seconds before dropping his altitude a few feet under Bruce, and licked his suddenly-dry lips.

“Alright, Big Guy. Hang on a minute while I get hold of base, and when I tell you to, you pull your emergency release and bail the fuck out. Got it?”

“What?” Bruce squawked.

Clint ignored him and quickly flipped his radio to the frequency for their tower and thanked whatever god might be listening that they were within distance of their base to be picked up.

“187th, this is Lieutenant Barton. Tower, do you copy?”

The response was almost instant, a sign that Coulson must have been up there and waiting to hear from them. Clint almost smiled at the thought. No doubt poor Cameron must have been about wetting himself with having Coulson up there, angry face in place, and pacing around for Clint and Bruce to make contact.

“This is tower, we copy you, Hawkeye. What’s your status?” The voice on the end of the line came through crackly in the static-pop of Clint’s headset. They must have just barely been within range, then.

“Lieutenant Banner and I are on a Northwestern heading, roughly seven miles Southeast of base,” Clint glanced down to rattle off their exact coordinates, “Have a medic team there as soon as possible.”

The silence between Clint and the tower dragged on long enough that Clint assumed it meant Cameron was sounding the alarm to get the medics moving. When the line popped again, though, it was Coulson’s voice that answered.

“Barton, is Banner alright? Did you manage to bring his plane down safely?”

Clint quirked an eyebrow at thin air and smirked into his oxygen mask. “Banner’s gonna be fine, Coulson. Don’t you worry about him. His plane’s not gonna land safely though. We’re gonna try somethin’ a little bit crazy. Just make sure the medics get to those coordinates.”

Coulson didn’t answer for a second. In his head, Clint saw Coulson scowling at the microphone and couldn’t help chuckle softly. “Stop scowling, Major, your face’ll stick like that. Don’t worry, Banner’s gonna be fine. See you when I land. Barton out.”

Without giving Coulson time to answer, Clint switched back to being able to talk to Bruce and took a breath. This was going to work, it had to work. No one was going to get hurt and Bruce was going to be picked up and taken to a hospital in no time to have his shoulder looked at and tended to.

“Okay, Bruce, time for you to train for the paratroopers, pal. We only got one shot at this and it needs to be now.”

Bruce’s voice came back through, terror dripping off every word. “Clint! What are you...I can’t…”

“Do it, Banner! Or I’ll clip your wings and _make you_ bail out!” Clint snapped. There was only a few seconds left before they’d be flying over a more heavily populated area and risk someone getting injured, or worse. At least the trees would provide some kind of padding for Bruce on his way down.

A second later, Clint watched as Bruce’s canopy flew off and down past Clint’s right wing. Quietly, Clint kept a constant chant of ‘come on, come on, come on,’ going until he saw Bruce’s body roll off the left wing and drop like a rock. An instant later, Clint caught sight of the parachute unfurling and popping open so that Bruce could coast gently back to earth.

With a nod, Clint pulled back on the controls and tipped the nose of his plane up just enough that he could start firing on it. He was positioned just right, that when Bruce’s plane finally started diving for the ground it went directly in front of him, screaming through the air with a sickening screech. Clint followed it down with his guns blazing until he hit just the right spot and quickly pulled up as the dying plane burst into a spectacular fireball and a thousand little pieces rained down on the trees and empty field.

Clint made a sharp turn around, his own fuel starting to run dangerously low, to make sure no pieces of debris hit any houses or buildings. In the near distance, Clint could just make out Bruce’s white parachute and dark body swaying almost weightlessly through the air before it disappeared into the trees.

Letting out a breath he didn’t know he’d been holding, Clint turned his plane around once more and continued on his way back to base.

“Tower,” he called through again, sounding more than a little exhausted, “Banner is in the trees. Quarter to half mile north of original coordinates. I’m on my way home.”

Without another word, Clint flicked his radio off and let himself close his eyes for a minute. The sun was already setting on the horizon, a dusky grey-blue-orange painting the landscape around him. It was a beautiful sight to see, marred only by the thought of Coulson probably killing him for blowing one of their planes up. Tony was _definitely_ going to kill him, but not just for blowing the plane up. Tony would kill him because he didn’t bring Bruce back safely like he promised. Though, technically, Clint could argue that he did. After all, Bruce would get picked up all in one piece this way. If Clint hadn’t made him bail, then Bruce would be getting picked up in pieces, most likely.

Sighing heavily and rolling his head side to side and back to try and ease his aching neck, Clint readied his plane for final approach and descent, quietly reassuring himself he’d done the right thing.

* * *

 

High up on their posts, the mercury lights had only just started to flicker to life around the base when Clint brought his plane in for a landing. His blood was still rushing both from the fight, and from having to do a mercy kill on Bruce’s plane, and his knees felt like jelly as he dropped himself down off the wing onto solid ground again. Three more German crosses would be added to the one already painted on the side of his cockpit, and probably an American flag, just for shits and giggles. That was fine by him, so long as it was the only time they painted one there.

Clint had only just slipped his parachute pack off his shoulders when he was met by Coulson and Tony. Not quite able to meet Tony’s eyes, Clint sighed heavily and moved to brush by them both. He just wanted to ditch his gear, take a hot shower, and maybe go into town to find someone to blow off some steam with.

“Bruce’ll be fine, Tony,” Clint mumbled. “Medics probably have him by now.”

Whether or not Tony tried to make a response to that, Clint didn’t know. He didn’t want to know. Last thing he wanted was his best friend to hate him for not being able to properly bring Bruce back. With his head ducked, Clint tried to slip off to the equipment shed without another word.

Coulson had other plans.

“Barton, store your gear and report to my barracks.” It wasn’t quite an order, but it was a bit more than a request.

Clint groaned inwardly, but nodded as he continued on his way, barely uttering out a ‘Yes, sir’. Thank God Tony didn’t follow him. Clint took his time putting his gear away, making sure everything was just so before he finally made his way to Coulson’s barracks.

He wasn’t quite sure what to expect when he knocked on Coulson’s door, and his stomach twisted with nerves as he was called into the room. Just as it was the last two times Clint had been in there, Coulson’s room was clean and orderly, everything you’d expect from a Regular Army guy. Yet despite that, it was comfortable and strangely homey. A record was playing on the small turntable next to Coulson’s bed and a decanter of some kind of amber liquor was in the middle of the table, two empty tumblers sitting beside it.

Coulson was sitting at one of the two places at the table, a clipboard, paper, and a pen in front of him, his flight suit already hanging on the hook next to the door, the brown leather A-2 jacket over it. Clint took just the smallest moment to take in the sight of Coulson from the doorway. The light was dim, but it usually was in all of the barracks, and it casted shadows every which way, yet seemed to bathe Coulson in a soft, pleasant glow. The bland mask that generally resided on Coulson’s face was gone, replaced instead with a fondness that made Clint’s mouth run dry.

There was an empty seat across from Coulson that Clint finally settled himself down in once Coulson motioned to it. Sitting closer, Clint’s eyes scanned across the flash of collarbone peeking out from under Coulson’s open collar. The tan tie that was almost always around his neck was loose, the knot hanging just under the second undone button of the khaki uniform shirt. It was a far more relaxed look than he’d been expecting.

With a small nod once Clint was settled, Coulson poured them each two fingers-width of the amber liquor and nudged a tumbler towards Clint. “Here. Sip on that for a bit.”

Clint took the glass and swirled the liquid around inside for a moment, trying to keep his hands from shaking and his mind from racing. Finally, he brought the drink up and took a quick swig from it, letting the warmth of the alcohol burn down his throat and settle in the pit of his stomach. Clint wasn’t a huge drinker, at least not for anything harder than beer, but whatever it was Coulson had given him was smooth and sweet, and ‘sipping’ it was going to be a challenge.

He looked down into the glass again and just stared at the liquid as silence settled in around them. Finally, Clint took a breath.

“Thought I was supposed to go to debriefing after a mission, sir,” he mumbled, never looking up from his drink.

Across the table from him, Coulson smiled softly. “This is your debriefing,” he held up the clipboard and pen for Clint to see before setting them down again. “Feel free to start whenever you’re ready.”

“Where do you want me to start?”

“From the time you first spotted the 109s, is fine.”

Clint nodded and tipped his glass back, polishing off what was left before setting it back down on the table to pour another. With a deep breath, Clint was able to start in on what happened, both during the battle and on the flight home with Banner.

He explained about how the chaos had disoriented him and caused him to lose sight of Coulson in the scramble, and mentioned his three kills that they would need to watch the footage of to confirm, but he was pretty confident that he’d nailed all three. They talked at length about how Rumlow had seemingly purposely blocked Clint’s sight of the German squadron leader and when he couldn’t make the shot, refused to move so Clint could. Clint did his best to paint an accurate picture for Coulson about the events that took place after he’d stayed behind to make sure Bruce made it home safely. He also didn’t bother to hide the fact he figured he would be in trouble for having Bruce bail out so Clint could blow the dying P-51 to kingdom come.

Chin on his chest and tumbler of liquor in hand, Clint kept his eyes closed as he waited for the final blow. The one that led to him being shoved off on someone else. Again. He startled when instead he felt Coulson’s warm hand grasp at his shoulder and give it a gentle squeeze. Just enough to make Clint look up and meet those deep, kind grey eyes.

Clint’s breath was nearly knocked out of him when he realized just how close to him Coulson was. Close enough that Clint could just barely make out the faint freckles that scattered across the slight crook to Coulson’s nose. Maybe it was the alcohol, but Clint really wanted to lean in and try to kiss each and every one of them.

“Clint,” Coulson started, his voice soft and kind and enough to completely knock the wind from Clint’s lungs. That was the first time Coulson had ever called him by his given name and it sounded even better than he could have ever imagined. Clint licked his dry lips and swallowed hard, quickly getting lost in Coulson’s grey-blue eyes.

“Clint, you didn’t do anything wrong. Your quick thinking probably saved Banner’s life.” Coulson kept his eyes on Clint, and his hand on Clint’s shoulder. “Think about it, you said Banner was having a lot of difficulty raising and using his right arm. He wouldn’t have been able to control the plane and lower the landing gear at the same time, right?”

Again, Clint swallowed hard, nodding dumbly.

“So he would have had to have come in on his belly. He was leaking fuel into his cockpit. Any small spark upon landing would have sent the plane up in flames. At the very least, it would have seriously burned him and sent him back to the States to attempt to recover. At the worst…”

Clint blinked and glanced away for a second, trying to get control over his feelings again. He’d been telling himself he’d done the right thing the whole rest of the way home, but there was still that insecure little voice in the back of his head that kept telling him he’d fucked up again. He had blown his last chance.

“Not only that,” Coulson continued, bringing Clint’s attention back around to him. Clint had to blink past the wetness forming on his lashes and steadied himself when he saw Coulson give just the smallest, fond smile. “You saved a small community from having a portion of its population wiped out. If that plane had gone its course on the way down, it no doubt would have landed smack dab in the middle of that little hamlet.”

Hope swelled bright in Clint’s chest as Coulson’s smile grew. It’d been a long time since anyone smiled at Clint like they were honestly proud of him, he wasn’t quite sure what to do!

Coulson’s praise didn’t stop there, though. He continued, scooting close enough that his hand slipped across Clint’s shoulder and stopped just shy of brushing across his neck. It was enough to make a shiver run down Clint’s spine, and he had to bite the inside of his lip to keep from leaning into the touch.

“You’re a _hero_ , Clint. You not only saved Banner’s life, but you saved countless other innocent lives. I have never been more proud of any of my men, as I am of you right now.”

Something in Clint shattered in that instant. It felt like his lungs were suddenly too big for his chest, and not getting nearly enough air all at once. Whether it was the look in Coulson’s eyes, how close they were at the moment, or the alcohol making its way through his system, Clint found himself speaking without thinking.

“Major, I’m gonna kiss you now. So if you’ve got somethin’ against that—“

Coulson’s eyes widened at that, while pink flashed across his cheeks. “I…we…we can’t,” he stammered, shaking his head even though he wasn’t making any attempt to take his hand off Clint’s shoulder, let alone back away. “Barton, I…I’m sorry if I made the wrong impression but, we…just can’t. I’m your superior, if we get caught—“

“I know, I know,” Clint cut him off quickly and reached to take hold of Coulson’s loose tie. “If we get caught it’s big trouble, sure. But sir, lemme fill ya in on a little secret,” Clint leaned in closer and Coulson’s hand finally slid around to the back of Clint’s neck. For a split second, it was enough to throw Clint’s thoughts off-kilter and make him stare at Coulson through half-closed eyes. “We’re not gonna get caught.”

Without giving Coulson time to react, Clint pulled on the tan tie looped around his hand and brought their heads together in a bruising kiss. There was absolutely nothing graceful or suave about it. Their noses crashed together awkwardly and Clint accidentally bit his own lip when their mouths collided, but once they slotted together it was perfect.

Hell, it was no doubt the closest to Heaven Clint was ever going to get.

Coulson’s lips were just as soft and warm as Clint always imagined they would be; Clint couldn’t stop himself from tracing the seam with the tip of his tongue. The faint taste of alcohol lingered there, and when he was finally granted access to the rest of Coulson’s mouth, Clint chased that taste to every nook, cranny, and corner he could.

Heat and need coiled in the pit of his stomach when Clint moved his right hand to grab Coulson’s bicep and held on tight. He greedily swallowed down each quiet little noise Coulson – _Phil_ , he had to be Phil now; Clint was practically fucking the man’s mouth with his tongue – made, and returned them with soft gasps and groans of his own. Their tongues twisted and danced around each other and when Phil sunk his hand into Clint’s hair and tangled his fingers in it, Clint was nearly a goner.

Neither of them said a word, they didn’t need to, as they scrambled to their feet, the chairs scraping backwards and teetering dangerously before settling. They’d been dancing around this moment, and each other, for the past month or so. Since the night Phil had patched Clint up after his barroom brawl. Clint been waiting even longer for this moment. Their bodies came together a split second before Clint carefully backed them up to Phil’s bed and got them horizontal, and when Clint slid himself into the V of Phil’s legs they both had to break the kiss to gasp and groan.

Clint rocked his hips against Phil’s, groaning at how good it felt to have that pressure and to feel Phil’s own erection pressing back. While Clint was busy licking and nibbling his way up Phil’s jaw, Phil flattened his feet to the mattress, his knees coming up to cradle Clint against him and give him leverage to thrust back. The action was give and take, and Clint moaned low against Phil’s ear. There were far too many clothes separating them, but Clint was almost too far gone to do anything about it.

When Phil gasped and groaned again, Clint growled low in his throat before nipping at the sensitive area just behind Phil’s ear. “Fuck...Phi--Coulson…”

Phil groaned, thrusting his hips up harder while one hand twisted tighter into Clint’s short hair. “Phil...fuck...Clint, call me Phil…”

“ _Phil_ …” Clint breathed the name against Phil’s ear, drawing it out and making it sound far more sultry than it should. It was enough to make Phil gasp harder and shove his hips up to meet Clint’s even faster.

The way Phil was gasping in short breaths, Clint could only assume that Phil wasn’t far from the end; Clint was right there with him, but he wanted this to be good. Frantic as it was, Clint wanted it to be good for Phil. He quickly pulled back from where he was trying to worry a mark on Phil’s exposed collarbone and slid down to lay between Phil’s legs. There were less clothes to get through to get to Phil’s cock than there were to get to his own at the moment, and Clint _needed_ to have Phil in his hand. To know how good it felt to have that hard length to wrap his fingers around and learn every vein with the tip of his tongue before swallowing it down as best he could. Clint wanted to taste him, to pull Phil apart piece by piece and have him gasping for mercy by the time Clint was finished with him.

With the final thin layer of cotton pulled away, and Phil’s heavy cock finally on display, Clint let out an involuntary groan of pleasure, his own cock twitching and aching in his pants. A healthy length and just the right thickness, Phil’s cock twitched in Clint’s hand; a steady drip of clear pre-come beading at the tip and rolling down the smooth side of the exposed head. Clint took a moment just to admire it. He wrapped his hand around the base, soft curls brushing against his palm, while his other hand stroked firmly up and down, coaxing the rest of his foreskin down into place before he leaned in to brush his lips against the tip.

The noises coming from Phil were intoxicating and Clint felt his sanity slipping when Phil’s hips jerked upwards. With a quick lick up the thick vein on the underside, Clint swirled his tongue around the head, paying extra attention to the spot just under the head, where foreskin connected to the rest of the shaft. The licking and teasing there was making Phil squirm and whine, and he was already starting to beg for something, _anything_!

Clint reached one hand down between himself and the mattress to press the heel of his hand into his own erection. He was going to come in his uniform, but he didn’t care. There were enough layers that no one should be able to tell in the end. With one more lick, Clint wrapped his lips around the tip and sunk his head down as far as he could. Not quite far enough to bury his nose in the soft curls at Phil’s base, but still far enough to have both of them moaning in pleasure. Clint’s eyes fluttered shut as he began licking and sucking up and down Phil’s length, breathing in the warm, musky scent that had Clint aching harder.

It wasn’t long at all before Phil’s hips were jerking on the mattress, rising up to try and meet Clint’s mouth stroke for stroke in a desperate, needy rhythm. With barely more than a sharp gasp and sudden tensing of muscles for a warning, Phil erupted in Clint’s mouth, hot, thick, and bitter-salty in taste. Clint moaned in ecstasy as he swallowed it down and pulled off to lick up what might have gotten away.

His hips still thrusting against the mattress, Clint’s breath stuttered against Phil’s softening cock as his own orgasm rocked through him. There was nothing earth shattering about it, his vision only barely going white around the edges as the warm wetness dampened his boxers and uniform slacks; but that didn’t mean it didn’t leave him any less breathless. Clint panted heavily as he buried his face into the crease of Phil’s thigh to try to catch his breath.  

Gentle fingers carded through his hair, dull nails scratching down his neck before starting back up again. It was a touch that tightened Clint’s chest to a point of being painful to breathe, and had him clenching his eyes shut. In all his life, Clint could only count the number of times someone had touched him so gently, like he was the most important thing in the world, on both hands. Such tenderness was reserved for those deserving of it, never for Clint. It was a lesson he’d learned far too many times the hard way.

Clint shifted when he felt Phil finally reach down to start tucking himself back into his slacks again. An awkward silence had fallen over them and the tightening in Clint’s chest was now making its way down to his stomach in dread. What if he’d really crossed the line this time, and Phil was going to ship him off somewhere really remote, where he wouldn’t see any air time? What if Phil decided to court martial him for this? He’d forced himself onto Phil, after all, Phil had every right to court martial him. But, then again, Phil could have stopped him at any time. Clint knew Phil was hiding a lot of lean muscle under that uniform, and there wasn’t a doubt in his mind that if Phil had wanted to shove Clint off of him, he would have. But he didn’t. In fact, Clint was pretty sure Phil had been the one who deepened the kiss first, and he was almost positive Phil was the one that pulled them up out of the chairs without breaking the kiss. So, really, Phil couldn’t court martial him for what happened, since it was consensual, right? Or was it _really_ consensual given the fact Phil had originally told him they couldn’t?

The panic started to roil and twist in his stomach, and the old familiar itch to just run was starting to tingle on the back of his neck. If Phil hadn’t wrapped his fingers around Clint’s wrist, thumb stroking over his pulse point, and pulled Clint back up his body, Clint probably would have booked it right then and there. Instead, he found himself with his head pillowed on a strong chest, a steady rhythm heartbeat thumping away under his ear as Phil wrapped his arms around Clint to hold him close and tight. A lover’s embrace that Clint remembered from being married to Bobbi all those years ago. Except, back then, he’d been the one doing the holding.

“You’re thinking too loud,” Phil murmured, his warm breath dancing through Clint’s hair.

Clint had to remind himself to breathe before he swallowed thickly. “Sorry,” he mumbled back, only getting a faint hum of a response from Phil at first.

The soft _ticktick-ticktick-ticktick_ of Phil’s bedside clock was the only sound that filled the otherwise silent room. If it weren’t for the fact Clint could feel Phil’s fingers gently brushing up and down a small section of his back, he would have thought Phil had fallen asleep. Who would have guessed the Major was a snuggler?

They laid there for a few minutes longer without saying a word. Clint wondered if the same panicky thoughts were running through Phil’s head as they were through his own. Oh but Phil was good, though. He was everything Clint had imagined he’d be, and then some. And this was just a blowjob! Through the post-orgasm haze and panic, Clint found himself wondering what it would be like to have Phil’s mouth on him. To be staring down as Phil sucked him off hard and filthy, lips bright red and slick. Or better yet, to be laid out on his back while Phil fucked him senseless. Or maybe he could be the one fucking Phil...

“This can never happen again…” Phil’s words cut through the silence, and just like that, all of Clint’s thoughts screeched to a halt.

The bottom fell out of his stomach as he slowly extracted himself from Phil’s hold and moved to sit up. Right. Reality had to come screaming back to remind him what a bad idea this had been. Clint kept his head down as he stood and straightened his clothes; it was going to be an awkward walk back to his barracks with his shorts full of cooling come, but he’d survive.

Clint heard the bed creak as Phil sat up. Nodding, Clint stepped back towards the table where his jacket and gloves were. “Right. Sure. ‘Course not.”

“Clint...it could be seen as an abuse of power.”

“Not if I’m the one who kissed first,” muttered Clint as he yanked his jacket up off the table and started for the door. “I get it, Coulson. It was a fuck up. Let’s just forget the whole thing, huh?”

The bed groaned behind Clint as Phil pushed himself to his feet. As much as he wanted to look back, he couldn’t. If he looked back, it was only going to end badly, and Clint wanted to slink out while he still had a shred of dignity left.

With his hand on the doorknob, Clint squared his shoulders and tossed a, “Goodnight, Major,” behind him while stepping out the door. He purposely ignored the almost pleading way Phil called his name out after him.

 


	13. Chapter 13

 

When Phil had said sleeping with Clint could never happen again, he’d meant it. He really had. Sleeping with Clint was an abuse of power, no matter who kissed first. It was better to just put the whole thing behind them and try to go on like everything was fine.

Except for the fact that nothing was fine.

For three whole days Clint avoided being in even the same area as Phil. If Phil walked into the mess hall and Clint saw him, Clint would dump his tray and take the back way out. Phil really wished they’d get a call about a mission, just so that way Clint would have to be in the same room as him for more than two seconds. Not only that, he’d have to talk to Phil.

It also wasn’t just the fact Clint was avoiding him like the plague that was bothering Phil, it was the way his dreams were completely haunted by searing blue-green eyes and a warm touch. The mark Clint had left on his collarbone was faded, but still visible, and was a constant reminder that, for a moment, Phil had  had something good in his life. That he’d finally gotten something he truly wanted. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw Clint’s face, his smile. Lying in bed, Phil could feel Clint’s kisses and warm breath. In fact, Phil was pretty sure he wasn’t getting a whole lot of sleep because of any of that.

Which was how Phil was going to explain it to anyone who asked why he’d done what he did if they caught him grabbing Clint’s arm as he walked by the supply shed and pulled him in. It was ridiculously immature, but Phil was beyond caring. All he could think about was being able to touch Clint again and to kiss him senseless. And he was well on his way to doing that before Clint got his hands on Phil’s shoulders and shoved him off.

Phil deserved that, and he’d be lying if he said he wasn’t bracing for a knuckle sandwich, too. He sure as hell deserved one of those. What he got instead, was a metaphorical gut punch when he saw the hurt and confusion flash across Clint’s face before getting shut down into a cold, stony expression. Taking a step back, Phil kept his own face open, hoping that his apology was evident in his eyes.

Not that it really did him any good, not with the way Clint was glaring at him and clenching his fists at his sides.

“Just what the hell do you think you’re doing, _sir_?” There was just enough bite in that little word alone to have Phil mentally flinching. Yeah, he’d really screwed things up good, this time.

Taking a breath, Phil straightened his shoulders and finally risked a step forward. “I’m sorry, Clint,” he started, telegraphing his every move just in case Clint did finally decide to deck him “About what I said. The other night in my room.”

Clint’s jaw flexed and his knuckles went white, but so far he hadn’t pulled back for a punch, so Phil took another two steps forward and licked his suddenly-dry lips. With only one window in the shed to let light in, there wasn’t much in the way of air movement and Phil could feel the stuffiness closing in around him.

“Still doesn’t answer my question, _Major_. What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

“No,” Phil answered, shaking his head quickly as he tried to rearrange his thoughts. “No it doesn’t, I’m sorry. I, uhm, I wanted to apologize for the way I reacted the other day. And now I suppose I need to apologize for what I just did. I just…”

It had been a long time since Phil felt so awkward and unsure of himself, and it had to show in the way he kept fidgeting. Back to the door, Clint shifted from foot to foot and Phil felt the tension bleed out of his shoulders a bit when he saw Clint’s hands start to relax.

“Just what?” asked Clint.

Lifting his eyes to meet Clint’s gaze again, Phil swallowed thickly. “...Haven’t been able to stop thinking about it. I mean, about you and how good it felt. I just keep replaying it in my head, over and over, and hating myself for hurting you the way I did when I said it could never happen again.”

If it was possible for Clint’s face to shut down any more than it already was, Clint found a way. His eyes turned cold enough to make a chill run down Phil’s back.

“Yeah, well, you made it pretty clear that it was a big fucking mistake, so why—“

“Because it was a mistake. But…no, that’s not what I mean. It…I wanted you to kiss me. And I honestly wanted everything that we did, and then some, I just…never thought it would happen. And it probably shouldn’t have…but I wouldn’t object to it happening again?” Phil swallowed thickly and fought back the urge to reach up and loosen his tie.

When Clint didn’t move, Phil took the last step closer to close the gap between them. Cautiously, he brought his hand up to grip at Clint’s waist. “I want it to happen again,” he whispered. “I haven’t been able to stop thinking about it. About you. About how badly I wished I hadn’t screwed things up by opening my mouth, and how the next chance I got with you alone, I’d like to open my mouth for an entirely different reason.”

Phil watched Clint’s eyes go from cold and dull to dark and heated. He felt and heard Clint’s breath catch in his chest and Phil slid himself that much closer to feel the start of Clint’s erection pressing to his hip. Clint was only a couple inches taller than Phil, but he used that to his advantage and dipped his head just enough to be able to look up at Clint from under his long, dark lashes.

“Y-Yeah?” Clint stuttered.

Nodding, Phil dragged his hand from Clint’s hip to his stomach, fingers catching just under his belt. “Yeah,” he murmured back. “If…you still want me, that is?”

“Yes!” Clint’s answer was instantaneous, and maybe just a bit too eager.

Phil quirked an eyebrow and smirked, his head tilted slightly in amusement as he watched pink race to the tips of Clint’s ears.

Clint cleared his throat and shrugged, trying to cover his enthusiasm with feigned nonchalance. “I mean, I guess, maybe. So long as you’re not gonna freak out and change your mind afterwards and tell me we can’t do it again, or something.”

Phil shook his head as he leaned in closer, their faces not more than an inch apart and his fingers deftly working to undo Clint’s slacks enough to slip inside. “I won’t,” he promised in a low, rough voice. “I promise. I want this. I want you.”

Clint’s throat clicked as he swallowed and nodded, his breathing already starting to become shallow with want. Phil watched him nod before giving a nod of his own and leaning in to press a slow, filthy kiss to his lips. One that lingered and explored, that slowly turned into all tongue and teeth gently tugging on lips. When he finally pulled away, Clint’s bottom lip was swollen and bright red from Phil sucking on it, and Phil was sure he’d never seen a more gorgeous sight.

Smirking, Phil dropped to his knees and made quick work of getting Clint’s slacks down enough to free his hardening cock. His own eyes darkened with desire as he took just a moment to admire it before settling in to show it the same kind of affection and attention Clint had shown his earlier. It’d been a few years since Phil last had his lips around a cock, but he’d learned through the years that sucking a guy off was a lot like riding a bike – once you learn how, you never forget.

And Phil? Phil was making sure to pull out all the stops. His hands gripped Clint’s hips, holding him back against the door so he couldn’t move while Phil took the length down all the way to the back of his throat, nose buried in the soft dusty-brown curls at Clint’s base. He swallowed around the tip a couple of times, moaning happily as he felt it harden just that little bit more; when he pulled back, it was with a wet pop and smack of his lips, Clint’s cock springing up to twitch against the cooler air.

Above him, Clint let out a muffled groan. Phil looked up to watch Clint’s face as he slowly took the cock back into his mouth and hummed in appreciation at the sight; Clint’s fist shoved in his mouth to keep from making too much noise. After all, who knew who’d go walking by and accidentally hear them. Phil’s eyes fluttered shut as he licked and sucked, his cheeks hollowing as he bobbed his head up and down. He pulled one hand off Clint’s hips and reached down between Clint’s legs to gently grasp his heavy sac, making Clint gasp and groan all the more as he thumped his head back against the wooden door behind him. Phil rolled and massaged Clint’s sac in his palm, giving it a small tug before pushing them back up so he could press against the perineum and make Clint moan all the more.

He had just swallowed Clint down with a pleased hum when a shout went up outside. In the back of Phil’s mind, he knew they needed to stop and spring apart before someone saw them, but he couldn’t tear himself away from memorizing every vein on Clint’s cock. It wasn’t until the shout went up again that Phil pulled back, panting for breath and needing to wipe the spit off the corners of his mouth. Not two seconds later, the door to the supply shed bulged on its hinges as it tried to open with more force than necessary.

Clint swore under his breath as he scrambled to tuck himself back into his slacks while Phil shoved to his feet and took three leaps back, grabbing the first thing he saw on the shelf and pretending like he didn’t look thoroughly debauched.

“Major Coulson!” Fitz’s voice rang through the door. “Major Coulson, are you in there, sir?”

Phil swallowed hard and motioned for Clint to go ahead and open the door, despite them both looking flushed. Clint made a face, silently pleading for Phil to ignore it so they could get back to what they were doing. As much as Phil wanted to, he knew he couldn’t. He shook his head and willed his aching cock to go down.

Frowning, Clint stepped aside and opened the door just enough to peek out. Fitz was standing on the other side, a paper in hand and confusion written all over his young face.

“Oh. Lieutenant Barton,” Fitz seemed to be at a loss at seeing Clint standing behind the door. “Is Major Coulson in there? There’s a message for him from command. Sounded important.”

Phil stayed hidden in the shadows while Clint handled Fitz.

“He’s kind of in the middle of something,” Clint answered. “What’s the message, he’s back there just…surrounded by stuff. Call it back to him.”

Completely unaware of what had been going on, Fitz accepted Clint’s lie as truth and glanced his head just past Clint’s shoulder. “It’s new orders, sir! Fliers are to be ready to head out by 1300! Ward’s already in the briefing hut going over the maps.”

It was Phil’s turn to curse silently. Well, at least that news was enough to wither down his hard on. Clearing his throat, he stepped up behind Clint, gently nudging his side so he could step into sight. He had a squadron to run, after all.

“Alright. Thank you, Fitz. Let Ward know I’ll be there in a few minutes. Go let the others know to be in the hut in thirty minutes.”

Fitz nodded and spun on his heels, darting back across the camp to do as he’d been told.

It was only after Fitz was out of sight that Clint slammed the door closed and whirled on Phil, index finger jabbing into his sternum. “You owe me. I can’t fly like this!” Clint quickly motioned down to his crotch, where his slacks were still a bit tented.

Phil smiled apologetically and shrugged as he glanced down at himself. He wasn’t in a whole lot better shape, but at least by the time he made it to the briefing hut, it shouldn’t be noticeable. Meeting Clint’s gaze again, Phil slipped his arms around Clint’s shoulders and leaned in for another slow kiss. Kissing Clint had the potential of becoming habit-forming, if he wasn’t careful.

“Rain check,” Phil murmured, gently nibbling Clint’s lower lip before pulling back all the way and stepping out of Clint’s reach. “We finish this mission, after we debrief, you can come back to my room and I promise I’ll finish what I started.”

Clint looked a little more than skeptical, but nodded anyway before stepping out of the way of the door. “All right, fine,” he grumbled. “I don’t like it, but it’ll have to do.”

Phil stole another quick kiss before opening the door and stepping out. Clint wasn’t going to be the only one flying distracted that day, and Phil just hoped they managed to make it back to base in one piece so he could follow through on his promise. He was going to have to pull every trick in the book in order to make up for their interruption.

* * *

 

As it turned out, the mission that interrupted them in the supply shed was just the first of many to come. For the next two weeks it was nonstop missions: most were raids on various French cities where known Nazi camps were, but a few were escorts with the bombers into Germany. There weren’t many skirmishes, but of the few there were, Clint had managed to down six more fighters and blow an airfield halfway to Hell, which finally earned him the title of Double Ace with ten confirmed kills. Clint had been keeping count though, and Rumlow had only taken down three planes. Being proud of himself and maybe a little cocky over the fact he’d outdone Rumlow was childish, but Clint didn’t care.

Besides, his kills always earned him some hot and frantic kisses in the shadows between buildings, or against the wall of Phil’s barracks. And with those kisses came the occasional quick hand-job or blow-job, which Clint was sure he’d never get tired of. Most of the time, though, one of them would find their back pressed hard against the wall with a knee shoved between the other’s leg, frotting against each other until they finally came in a symphony of combined moans and gasps.

July had given way to August before Clint and Phil were finally able to take a day for themselves, while Steve and Bucky took a crew and their bomber on a mission. They’d wandered off together through the woods behind the barracks, quietly chatting about nonsensical thoughts before they finally came to rest in a small clearing where they’d spent most of the afternoon making each other squirm.

The sun was just starting to sink towards the treeline as the pair lay on the soft grass, Clint just in his slacks, and Phil with his uniform shirt hanging wide open so that Clint had easy access to any bare skin on his chest and stomach Clint could want. Clint had his head resting on Phil’s hip, and his left arm wrapped around Phil’s thigh, hugging close and smiling softly to himself while Phil played with his hair. It was easy and comfortable, and the most time they’d gotten to spend with each other in just over two weeks.

“You really grew up in a circus?” questioned Phil, his voice a soft and awe-filled murmur.

Clint smirked against Phil’s hip and nodded, humming in acknowledgement. “Mmhmm. Mostly, anyway. From age twelve to eighteen. That’s where I learned to fly, in the barnstormer act they had. I was flying the act on my own by the time I was fourteen.”

“Why’d you leave?”

This conversation was inevitable, Clint knew that the minute he’d let it slip that he’d been part of a traveling circus when he was a kid, but that didn’t make it any easier to talk about. Most of his life had been like a terrible nightmare, and he wasn’t exactly fond of taking trips down memory lane, but he owed it to Phil to lay it all out for him. Somewhere in his heart, Clint hoped that Phil would be able to see past all his dirty little secrets and hellish childhood and maybe still want him.

Sighing heavily, Clint rolled onto his back to stare up at the clouds. “Found out one of the acts was stealin’ money from customers and from the big boss. Tried to tell the big boss and ended up getting shoved off the high wire for my troubles. Brother hauled me to a hospital, dumped me there, and they took off.”

Phil’s fingers seemed to press a little bit harder against Clint’s skull at that before they eased off and went back to gentle little strokes. “That sounds like a good reason not to go back. Pretty horrible thing for them to do.”

Clint shrugged and turned his head enough to be able to look at Phil. “It kind of was, but, I mean, I met Bobbi there. She was puttin’ herself through school workin’ as a candy striper, so I got to know her pretty good. Once I was up on my feet again, I worked at the hospital to pay off my bill, stayed on for a while til I could buy my grandparent’s house when it went up for auction. Had to win a ton of air races in my spare time in order to make sure I could buy it. Finally had a place to call home, ya know?” He shrugged again and looked back up to the clouds. “Worked out for the best, actually.”

“Did you ever see your brother again?” Phil asked.

“Nah,” answered Clint, shaking his head. “Not sure whatever happened to him, but I’m willin’ to bet he’s in the trenches somewhere. Unless he actually made it to Canada or something.”

“What about Bobbi?”

“What about her?”

Phil rubbed the tip of Clint’s ear gently. “I didn’t get much of a chance to talk to her at the bar, but she made it sound like you two had been a thing for a while. What happened there?”

With a groan, Clint rolled again, this time onto his stomach so he could shove his face into the grass and hope for the ground to swallow him up whole. “Oh, you just asked the $5,000 question, Coulson.”

“Oh?” Phil asked, his curiosity clear in his voice.

Clint nodded and pushed himself up on his elbows. “Yeah. I’ll give ya the short version, less complicated. Met when we were eighteen. Asked her to marry me after only knowin’ her like nine days or something ridiculous like that. She transferred back home to San Diego to finish school, came back a couple years later after she graduated, and we didn’t actually get married until I was just ‘bout twenty-one, when I had a place for us to live and everything. It lasted a grand total of ten very long, stressful months and she left to go back to her mom’s. Finally actually had me sign divorce papers for her the day I was supposed to leave for basic. The end.”

Phil propped himself up on his elbows, his shoulders scrunched up towards his ears as he stared at Clint. Clint could practically hear the gears grinding in Phil’s head and did his best not to shift under the intense scrutiny of it.

Finally, Phil asked the question Clint had been dreading. “Did you have any kids?”

Clint took a moment to do a single push-up before rolling himself into a sitting position and reaching to find his uniform shirt. “No.”

A heavy silence fell over them while Clint pulled his shirt back on and buttoned it up. Though his eyes were focused on his fingers, he saw Coulson sit up and start to button his own shirt. It was starting to get late enough that they should start heading back to base anyhow.

“Why do I have the feeling there’s more to that than a simple ‘no’?”

“Because, there is.” Clint answered with a heavy sigh. He sat crosslegged and stared at the ground for a long moment before continuing. “Bobbi and I sort of had to get married. She never actually said yes when I asked her the first time. But uh, she came back to Iowa to visit some friends and decided to stick around. Me an’ her had a good time for a while, easy friendship, ya know? I taught her how to fly, how to race, we teamed up for a while doing the air race circuit, and then we won the Regionals. Next stop was the Nationals. If we could win the Nationals,” he paused, lost in thought for a moment before shaking the memories from in front of his face. “We celebrated a bit too hard after Regionals, and two months later had to get hitched real quick.”

“She was pregnant.” Phil drew his own conclusions.

Clint nodded silently before he took a deep breath and tilted his head up to watch the clouds start to change from bright white to shades of pink and orange. “Never made it to Nationals. Had to use the money we had to try to make things work at home. But, we uh...we worked better as friends than anything else, and we kept gettin’ into a lot of fights all the time, and she kept getting sick the whole time she was pregnant. Like, really sick, ya know?”

Tears stung at Clint’s eyes and he snuffled softly, trying to pull his emotions back in. “And uh, when Francis, uh...the baby, I mean, when he was born the doctors did everything they could for him, but...they said he was gone before he was even born. Nothin’ much they could do.”

Phil’s warm, strong hand came to rest on Clint’s shoulder and Clint swallowed hard at the comforting squeeze. It definitely wasn’t something he liked to think about, but Phil’s silent understanding helped to ease the knot in his chest a little. Tears still glimmered in his eyes, though, and his breath caught in his chest as he remembered the way the doctors rushed Francis off without even letting them see him, only to come back and say he didn’t survive.

He’d never forget the heartbroken sob of despair Bobbi gave when they were told.

Swallowing thickly, Clint wiped at his eyes and took another breath. “We tried to stay together for a while, but, it didn’t work. So, she went back home again… and that’s that.”

Phil tucked his finger under Clint’s chin and turned his head so their lips could meet. It was a soft, gentle kiss; one that was meant to be soothing more than anything else. Clint thought he could easily melt away into a puddle just from the tenderness that Phil showed him. There was no awkward condolences, no useless platitudes to try and convince him that all things happened for a reason; just Phil’s warm touch and sweet kiss pulling Clint back out of his head and to the present again. And in that moment, Clint could have sworn he’d fallen completely head-over-heels for the man.

When they pulled back, Phil stroked his thumb gently under Clint’s eye and smiled softly at him. The light was starting to fade faster, turning everything a hazy grey-purple, and it wouldn’t be long before they’d have to find their way back home through the woods in the dark.

“C’mon,” Phil murmured, leaning in to press one more quick, soft kiss to Clint’s lips before he stood and helped Clint back to his feet. “I think we’ve had enough heart-to-heart for one day. Probably a good time to start heading back. Should find out what’s keeping Rogers and Barnes.”

Clint frowned as he realized they hadn’t heard the bomber return from its mission. A heavy weight settled in his stomach.

“You don’t think something happened to them, do you?” he asked. It was hard to hide the concern in his voice. They were good guys, after all, and Clint honestly considered them his friends; he would hate for them to have been shot down or something.

Phil shook his head and brushed a quick kiss over Clint’s ear. “I’m sure they’re fine. Fitz would have come to find us if anything happened to them.”

That was true enough; Fitz had the uncanny ability of being able to find them when they didn’t want to be found. Clint pushed the thought to the furthest corner of his mind and took Phil’s hand as they started off back to base, just as the last bright ray of sunlight dropped below the horizon.

* * *

 

Darkness had settled over the base by the time Clint and Phil made it back, only the faint yellow-orange glow from the building lights guiding their way as they headed for the command center. They’d had fun most of the day, but now it was time for them to go back to the real world, and as much as Clint didn’t want to let go of Phil’s hand, he eventually drew it back. His fingers ghosted across Phil’s palm and wrist along the way, but Clint’s hand was tucked safely back in his pocket just as Rumlow came out of command. God only knew what kind of bullshit tantrum Rumlow would pull if he caught his commanding officer holding hands with Clint.

Clint tensed when he saw Rumlow glancing around and muttering to himself. Clint wanted to like the guy, he really did. Well, he sort of wanted to like him. There was a brief fleeting moment when Clint thought he could, maybe, but the fact of the matter was that he _didn’t_ like Rumlow. He was shifty and was constantly trying to butt his way into any conversation Tony was trying to have, didn’t matter who it was with. Not only that, Clint had caught him another time snooping around in the barracks where he didn’t belong, claiming Tony had sent him in there to look through his footlocker for something. Clint had meant to ask Tony about it later, but shit happened and he’d pushed it out of his mind.

Phil brushed his shoulder against Clint’s gently before he raised a hand to get Rumlow’s attention. Rumlow strided towards them like a man on a mission and Clint just barely caught the way his face shifted from frustrated to concerned.

“Sir,” Rumlow greeted with a quick nod, “I was just on my way to find you. It’s Cap an’ Bucky Cap.”

An uneasy twist formed in Clint’s stomach, and it wasn’t just from hearing Rumlow use Steve and Bucky’s call signs. Or, in Bucky’s case, unfortunate nickname. How was Clint supposed to know calling him ‘Bucky Cap’ would stick?

“What about them?” asked Phil, his shoulders already going tense and the sexiest of no-nonsense tones coming back to his voice.

Rumlow shook his head and waved a hand in front of his face as he cleared his throat to answer. “No, no. They’re fine, sir. It’s just, we just got word their plane was heavily damaged on its run. It only made it as far as an airfield just outside of London before Captain Rogers had to put it down in a field. Too much damage to land on the runway.”

The tension instantly vanished from Phil’s body and Clint was quick to fall into step beside him as Phil continued to head towards the command center. “Is their crew okay?” he asked, tossing Rumlow a sideways glance.

“Not clear, sir. Cap and Bucky Cap are on a transport plane here now. Should be landing in the next ten minutes.”

Phil sharply nodded once and stepped into the command center where Fitz and Ward were already going over maps and communications they had gotten about the success of the mission. Clint generally tried to stay out of their way, because the small room was crowded enough as it was. They didn’t need Clint just hanging around taking up space, and so he would have gone -- but if Rumlow was going to be in there with them, then Clint would be too.

Fitz and Ward both looked up when the trio walked in and shared a brief, confused glance with each other before standing straighter. Ward even snapped off a small salute to Phil when they came to stand around the table.

“Ward, what have we got? Any word on Captain Rogers’ crew?” Phil asked as he ignored the salute in favor of staring at the map instead.

“Uh, no, sir. Not yet,” Ward shook his head and relaxed again beside Fitz.

They were standing close enough together, Clint wouldn’t doubt it in the least if Fitz had his fingers curled into Ward’s belt loop or resting on his lower back. Clint still wasn’t real sure what their relationship was, but from everything he had seen in the three months he’d been there, the pair certainly was inseparable. If they weren’t already sleeping together, it probably wouldn’t be long before they were, and wouldn’t that just piss Rumlow right the fuck off?

Clint took a step back from the table to lean lazily against Fitz’s desk. He crossed his legs out in front of himself at the ankles, and folded his arms over his chest and just watched as Ward launched into his explanation of everything they did know. Clint kept a close eye on the map, taking in all the little red dots of targets that needed to be taken out yet, compared to the little green ones that were already dealt with. There were still an awful lot of red dots left, but after the success of the mission that just ended, another half-dozen or so little green ones would be popping up before the morning briefing.

Standing there silent like a ghost had its advantages. Clint was able to go unnoticed as he openly stared at Phil’s ass while Phil leaned across the table to reach for a pen, and he was able to keep an eye on Rumlow to make sure he didn’t do anything sleazy. Not that Clint could think of anything sleazy Rumlow could do in front of Ward, Fitz and Phil, but still. Just in case. It also meant Clint was the first to hear the plane coming in just a split-second before the pilot radioed in to request permission to land.

Phil and Ward were the first ones out the door, Clint close behind, followed by Rumlow, while Fitz stayed behind to talk the pilot in. Clint made sure to keep himself between Rumlow and Phil as they made their way across the grassy lawn towards the flight line. Not that he was possessive of Phil or anything, just, well, he was maybe a little possessive and didn’t want Rumlow anywhere close to his man.

The small group met the bomber just as it hit the brakes on the runway, rubber screeching across the cement as they slowed to a stop. With the familiar whirl and drone of the props slowing to a stop filling the air still, the small door at the rear of the fuselage opened, and a moment later Steve stepped out followed closely by Bucky. There was blood staining the cuffs of Steve’s bomber jacket, and caked in his blond hair, but he looked fine otherwise. Bucky, on the other hand, stepped one foot off the plane, turned and emptied his stomach across the ground. The front of his flight suit was dark with wetness, from his stomach down to his knees, and Clint was pretty sure he’d never seen a person look so pale in his life.

Steve put a hand on Bucky’s back and leaned in close to him, no doubt whispering words of comfort as he gently stroked his hand up and down Bucky’s spine, waiting for him to contain himself again. Clint felt his own stomach churn at the sight of them; he had to look away to keep from losing his own lunch.

When the two finally stood upright again, Phil didn’t say a word for a long, silent minute. When he finally did, his voice was quiet and comforting. “You boys go get washed up, and into some clean clothes. Take your time. Debriefing can wait a little while longer.”

Clint thought for sure Steve might cry at that, the way his face pinched up and he quickly and quietly nodded his head. With his arm still around Bucky’s waist, Steve led the way towards the showers, completely skipping over going back to their barracks for clean clothes first.

“I’ll uh,” Clint paused to swallow hard and wet his lips quickly, “I’ll go take ‘em their shower kits and some clean clothes.”

It was the least Clint could do to try and help them. Phil stared off after them for a moment before he took a deep breath and nodded to Clint.

“Thank you. Let them know we’ll be in the mess hall with some fresh coffee whenever they’re ready.”

Clint nodded once and without a second glance behind him, headed for the brick barracks where Steve and Bucky shared a room.

* * *

 

“There wasn’t anything we could do,” Steve murmured into his coffee cup an hour and a half later.

All cleaned up and in fresh clothes again, Steve and Bucky were sitting with their backs against the wall, neither one able to meet anyone’s gaze. They just sat there, staring into their coffee like it held the answer to all of life’s mysteries. Phil and Ward were sitting across from them at the table, Ward with the standard debriefing forms in front of him, taking down everything they said, while Clint sat crosslegged on the table behind Phil. He didn’t want to crowd them, after all. That was probably the last thing either bomber pilots needed.

They had already gone over the basics, things Phil and Ward already knew, that the mission started off fine, and everyone had been feeling good about it. They’d made their target and no sooner had they turned to start back home that anti-aircraft missiles exploded all around them. The Marauder had jerked and lurched in Steve’s hands and suddenly became almost damn near impossible to control. He had sent Bucky into the back to check on the others, while Steve stayed in the cockpit struggling to get them back home safely.

The screams of pain had been faint against the sound of sputtering engines and Steve’s own racing heartbeat. He had no idea how bad a shape their plane had been in -- and wouldn’t know until they finally landed in England that the nose dome had been destroyed, they were completely missing their left stabilizer and tail gunnery, and that much of the skin of the plane had been blown apart so that you could see right in. Steve had just known he had six guys in the back depending on him to get them home in one piece.

Sniffling slightly, Steve dug the heel of his hand into his eye before taking a long gulp of his coffee and continuing, “I’d told Buck to get the ones who weren’t injured off the plane, but, the stubborn bastards--”

“We weren’t going to leave you on your own to try and fly that thing, you damn punk,” Bucky growled, cutting Steve off with a fierce glare and clenched fists. It was the first he’d spoken since they’d gotten back from the mission, and it sounded like it was part of an argument Bucky was tired of having.

Phil took a breath and defused the argument before it even had a chance to get started. “Then what happened, Captain Rogers?”

Steve tore his bright blue eyes away from Bucky and looked back across the table to Phil, finally able to meet his patient stare. “A miracle.”

Clint sat up straighter across the aisle from them and blinked. He had heard stories in the past of fighter pilots who swore they’d witnessed a miracle mid-flight. Stories of a belly gunner stuck in a B-17 that had  landing gear that was so destroyed that there was no hope to save it, suddenly coming to life just when the crew needed it most, only to fall apart again as soon as the belly gunner had been rescued. He had heard tales of lights guiding planes to safety through dense fog, and of pilot’s convinced they had their long dead co-pilot there with them, that they could hear the spirits helping them get through a spray of enemy bullets and get home again. Clint had never experienced anything like that, but then, he didn’t exactly believe in miracles, either.

“A miracle?” parroted Ward skeptically.

“That’s what he said, ain’t it?” Bucky snapped back as he turned his fiery glare to Ward. Whatever had happened, it left them both shook up enough that Bucky was acting like a cornered animal.

Horrible as it was, Clint really kind of hoped Ward goaded Bucky enough that Bucky would hit him. Would be a hundred times better if he hit _Rumlow_ , but given that the jerk had taken up residence at the coffee pot and hadn’t said one word the entire time, it’d be harder for that to happen.

Once again, Phil brought the focus back to the details: “Mind explaining that further?”

“Bucky was in the back, doing his best to keep…” Steve trailed off and swallowed hard, looking away again before he could answer in barely more than a whisper, “to keep Kaplan from bleeding out. I knew we’d already lost Summers, I had heard his scream over the radio and then nothing after that. There was just...nothing we could do…”

Clint cringed in sympathy and had to take a gulp from his own coffee. Alex Summers had been a good kid, a little spitfire they’d aptly nicknamed Havok, but he was just that, a _kid_. Barely nineteen, if Clint remembered right. And Billy Kaplan was another one that should have been home chasing girls (or boys) and worrying about homework, not out here getting shot at.

“Captain…” Phil’s gentle voice pulled Clint and Steve out of their own thoughts. Steve shook his head to clear it as he continued.

“Sorry. I...I saw something catch my eye out the co-pilot window, when I looked...it was a 109. Big black cross on his tail end.” By the way Steve spoke, it was obvious he still wasn’t quite sure he even believed what he was saying, but he kept going just the same, “He kept pointing at me, then frantically towards the ground. Like he wanted us to land--”

“He wanted you to land and surrender?” Rumlow finally broke into the conversation. A small, disbelieving sneer on his face.

Steve nodded and swallowed another gulp of coffee.

“I think so. I started shaking my head no. There was no way I was going to land and let those guys get taken prisoner. They never would have survived. Bucky had come back up to the cockpit by then and the 109 flew under us and came back up on my side again. He flew right on our left wing, Coulson. Like he was supposed to be there,” Steve sounded like he was pleading with Phil to believe him, as if he’d already told the story to everyone else and no one had. “Then he started pointing away from England and kept mouthing something, but...I...I don’t know what he was trying to say. All I know, is that when we finally hit the edge of the Netherlands, this guy gave me a salute and then pulled off.”

The mess hall was deathly silent for several seconds, no one quite believing what they just heard. A German fighter had taken pity on a crippled US bomber. Clint still didn’t quite believe in miracles, but at least hearing his friends had been the ones who were allowed to get away helped to restore his faith in humanity. At least a little, anyway.

When the silence finally was broken, it was Rumlow who threw the rock through it.

“That doesn’t make any sense. A German fighter pilot wouldn’t just fly alongside an American bomber and not try to take it down out of the sky,” he argued, arms folded over his chest and a scowl in place. “He wouldn’t risk his life like that. If he’d been caught, it would have been a death sentence. There’s no way.”

Clint made a face and grumbled under his breath before he turned a murderous glare on Rumlow. “Maybe the guy actually showed a bit of honor and compassion towards them, huh? Ever think of that?” he spit back at Rumlow. “They won’t shoot down guys who are bailing out of their planes, or who are already out and floating down on their parachutes.”

“The Germans aren’t capable of compassion,” Rumlow snarled.

“Then _maybe_ the guy was deflecting,” Clint shoved himself off the table and started to take a step towards Rumlow, his hands already curled into fists and ready to strike. He would have made it, too, if Phil hadn’t caught him by the back of the shirt and pulled him to a stop. He ignored that, but stayed where he was. “Who the fuck knows why he did it! No one’s _ever_ gonna know why he did it. All that matters is that our friends are still alive thanks to that guy.”

Rumlow’s scowl turned into a full sneer, complete with curled lip and deep furrows digging in above his dark eyes. “You sure are quick to defend a Kraut bastard, _Barton_. You sure you know whose side you’re really on?”

A stab of ice-cold hatred shot down Clint’s back. There was no way in hell Rumlow had just accused him of being a traitor. “And you’re quick to crucify him and call the entire population of Germany uncompassionate jackasses. Don’t you know that makes _you_ look suspicious?” Clint growled back through clenched teeth.

“It’s called being a loyal patriot. Something a circus freak like _you_ wouldn’t know jack about.”

Clint yanked his shirt out of Phil’s grasp and lunged for Rumlow, at the same time that Bucky and Steve jumped up from the table to make a play for him, too. Or at least, Steve was ready to tackle the rat bastard, and would have if Bucky hadn’t caught him around the chest and held him back. Though, from the glare on Bucky’s face, it was obvious that it wasn’t exactly his first choice to hold Steve back from starting a fight. Clint had managed to clip one punch off Rumlow’s jaw before Phil was yanking him back by his arms and Ward was standing between them, a hand on Rumlow’s chest to keep him in place.

“That’s enough!” Phil ordered sharply, leaving no room for negotiation.

He kept hold of Clint’s arms for a moment longer, and Clint relaxed minutely when he felt Phil’s thumb rub against his spine before letting him go. It was a simple touch, but it was enough to help calm him down again.

“Rumlow,” continued Phil, fully back into his no-nonsense commanding officer persona, “Go back to your quarters and get some sleep. I want you on first morning patrol, 0500 sharp. Understood?”

“Barton gets a pop off on me and I’m the one being pun--”

“Is that. Understood?”

Rumlow squared his jaw and stood a bit straighter. He gave a short nod and salute like a good little soldier would before he answered with a, “Yes, sir. Understood,” and turned to march out.

It was only once he was gone that Phil let go of Clint’s arms and took a breath. Clint shrugged out of Phil’s hold and straightened his shirt as Phil ran a hand down his face to hide a yawn. It was getting late, they had been up since early that morning, and would probably have to be up early again the next morning.

“Barton, you just stay in my room tonight,” Phil finally sighed, shaking his head tiredly. “I don’t want you going back to your barracks and killing Rumlow in his sleep. I wouldn’t be able to just overlook that one.”

Clint opened his mouth, ready to protest, but quickly shut it with a grin when the words sank in. He’d get to sleep over in Phil’s room for the night! No way he was going to object to that.

“Sir, yes, sir. It’d be my pleasure, sir.”

Phil quirked a brow and gave a very small smirk as he shook his head and looked back to the others. “Ward, make sure you get that filed as soon as possible. But, let’s all try to keep this compassionate German under our hats, okay? We don’t need word getting out about it and guys getting cocky thinking they can trust to be escorted out of Germany if they’re in a limping bird. It may not always be the case.”

The others nodded in understanding, and waited for another couple beats to be dismissed. It just took a second for Phil to rub his forehead and nod.

“Alright, that’s all. Let’s all try to get some sleep,” Phil gently nudged Clint between the shoulders to get him walking before he nodded to Steve and Bucky. “Captains, I’m glad you made it home safely. And I’ll keep you informed about Kaplan and Altman’s conditions as I find out. You both did good work.”

There was a shared and mumbled, “Thank you, sir,” between the pair as they nodded and started out the door behind Ward. Once they were out of sight, Clint slipped his arm around Phil’s waist and grinned.

“So, sleep over in your room tonight, huh?” he teased.

Phil rolled his eyes but didn’t bother to hide his small smile. “Sleep being the keyword, Clint.”

“What about cuddling? Can we at least cuddle?”

Silence followed his question for a beat before Phil huffed a quiet laugh. “Yeah. We can cuddle. But just cuddle.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The story that Steve and Bucky told of the German fighter pilot that saw them safely back to Allied territory is actually a true event. That really did happen, and it's a wonderful, heartwarming story! The pilot of the bomber plane, and the German fighter pilot found each other years and years later and became very dear friends. You can read the actual account here: http://nypost.com/2012/12/09/amazing-tale-of-a-desperate-wwii-pilots-encounter-with-a-german-flying-ace/


	14. Chapter 14

 

August 1943

Clint had never been in one squadron long enough to take advantage of an R&R order. Two nights and a day and a half of Rest and Relaxation wasn’t something he had ever thought he’d get to have. But, after the last few weeks the 187th had been having, the word from command HQ finally came down relieving them of duty for a couple of days.

Which was how Clint found himself sitting in a pub in London, surrounded by his friends, Coulson at his side, and a steady flow of drinks making their way to the table. The laughter and stories came as freely as the alcohol, and it wasn’t long at all before everyone was loose enough that inhibitions were lost to the small group. Bruce, with his arm still in a sling, had been pulled down into Tony’s lap and the two were taking turns drinking from the same glass of scotch. In the center of the group’s large corner booth, Steve and Bucky were huddled close to each other, their heads bent towards one another and they kept speaking in hushed tones. Whatever Bucky was whispering to Steve, it was enough to make the guy’s ears turn pink.

Even Ward and Fitz had joined the group. Clint had asked them an hour ago, when the buzz of alcohol was still a fresh and pleasant feeling in his head, what they were -- relationship-wise, of course -- and he still couldn’t get an answer. Well, they did answer, it was just over top of each other and a garble of nonsense among the roll of boisterous conversations happening everywhere else around them. It didn’t really matter, they were both adults -- Fitz had just turned twenty a few weeks before, Clint did hear that much at least -- and they were allowed to be whatever they wanted to be.

Everyone in the group took turns telling funny stories about their childhoods; even Phil told one or two about his wayward youth and the trouble he would get into starting fights and outrunning the Chicago policemen. And, like with the stories, they each took turns buying the drinks.

Clint had just come back with the next round, having missed the first part of the conversation, when Bucky slapped the table and pointed to him.

“Hey! Barton! You speak Russian, right? Ain’t that what you told us? That Russian doll in the circus taught you?” Bucky asked as he leaned heavily against the table.

Eyebrow raised, Clint passed the drinks around the table and nodded. “Kind of. Been a while, but I could probably still manage to find my way around Moscow and not get slapped by some little old babushka. Why?”

Steve reached to pulled Bucky off the table and back into their corner, one arm around Bucky’s shoulders while his other was busy holding both beers. “We overheard some guy over there,” Steve tipped his chin in the direction of another group of pilots. A tall blond man stood in the center of the group and could have rivaled Steve in every way from looks to physique. Clint was impressed, but looked back to Steve anyway when he continued talking. “He said there’s a group of women pilots outta Russia who are bombers. Call themselves knock-knee veed my?”

Clint’s eyebrows scrunched together as he leaned in closer and tilted his head to listen better. “What?”

“Knock-knee--”

“ _Nochnyye ved’my_ ,” Fitz interrupted, shaking his head at Steve trying to figure out a different language.

“Oh!” Clint slid into his spot next to Phil and grabbed his beer, repeating the title in Russian as he nodded. “Means ‘night witches’. What about it?”

Tony rested his chin on Bruce’s good shoulder and reached around to poke Clint in the chest. “We want you to go recruit them. So they can fly for us. Or at least their lead pilot. We need her. Go! Go find out where they are and bring them to us!”

Clint laughed around his glass as he shook his head and leaned into Phil a bit more to keep out of Tony’s jabbing finger. “What? Why? What’s so hot about their lead pilot?”

“They had a certain name for her,” Steve started. He had just opened his mouth to try and say what he’d heard her get called, when Ward shook his head and waved him off.

“Don’t try it, Rogers. Stop embarrassing yourself.”

“Yeah, Steve-O. Stick to French,” Bucky all but purred as he leaned in to nuzzle just below Steve’s ear, making Steve flush from his hairline down.

Ward nudged Fitz in the side and nodded to Clint when he got a look of confusion. “Tell him what they called her. What was the Russian they said--”

“Oh! Uh,” Fitz’s brow scrunched as he thought before finally getting the words out, even though it was still bastardized by Fitz’s thick Scottish accent, “ _Chernaya Vdova_ ”

Phil, who had been quiet the last few minutes save for a few soft chuckles, looked to Clint and blinked at him owlishly as he asked, “Wha’s’it mean?”

It was obvious Phil had had more than just a couple of drinks, and even though he’d told Clint once that he knew when to stop, it was apparent that he’d ignored all the signs and just plowed into being smashed. His cheeks were a healthy and rosy pink, and his hair was disheveled in a way that should probably be illegal. It was his eyes, though, that were the best part. They were bright and shining under his heavy lids and long, dark lashes. And he stared up at Clint like Clint had hung the moon, and stars, and all the planets. It was almost an adorable look on him. And if Clint weren’t as sober as he still currently kind of was -- he’d been pacing himself and maybe having the bartender water his drinks down for him a little -- he probably would have dragged Phil off to their hotel room and spent the night making drunken love to him.

For a second, Clint was totally lost in Phil’s eyes until Tony leaned in to poke at him again.

“Hey! Romeo! Juliet asked what it means!”

Clint startled and shook his head, blinking quickly as he ran through his mental vocab list of Russian words and phrases. Maybe he was a bit more drunk than he thought he was. “Uh...chern...Black Widow.” Quickly, he rattled the words off together and nodded, “Yeah, Black Widow. So...the Night Witches are led by the Black Widow.”

Tony gripped Bruce’s shoulder and gave him a tiny shake. “I told you he’d know! Now he just has to recruit her for us!”

“Yeah!” Bucky exclaimed, sloshing his beer over his hand without a care. “Tell ‘em we’ll trade ‘em! Give us this Black Widow dame, and we’ll give them that jackass Bumlick!”

Shaking his head, Tony struggled to swallow down his beer before he could speak again. “Rimslow! We call him Rimslow in the barracks.”

Phil looked between Clint and the others and frowned, furrows forming across his forehead. “How come you guys don’t like Rumlow? He’s a good guy.”

“Yeah, that’s what you said ‘bout Ward, too,” joked Clint. “Still not sure how you figure that one.”

Laughter broke out around the table, drowning out Ward’s cry of dismay. Clint smiled across at Ward and blew him an over-dramatic kiss before dropping his arm around Phil’s shoulder. It was useless to pretend like they weren’t together, not with the company they were with. Tony and Bruce were the first to know when Clint and Phil had become more than just friends, and it was probable that Ward and Fitz knew shortly after, too. And Steve and Bucky? Well, they were the last two people who should be against it, so they weren’t going to say anything.

When the laughter finally settled down again, it was Steve who finally answered. “He just doesn’t fit in real well. He’s--”

“A royal pain in the ass!” Tony slammed his empty glass on the table and turned to look at Phil. “And that’s coming from the guy who was crowned king of the pain in the asses at a young age.”

Clint choked on his drink as he laughed.

“He was,” Clint coughed, clearing his throat as he leaned in against Phil a bit more. “He showed me the coronation photo. Lovely ceremony.”

“Shut up, smartass,” Tony reached out to smack at Clint’s head and kept talking, “The guy kept following me around even before he found out I was Howard’s kid. Now he follows me around even more. Keeps asking me about Howard’s work and everything, like I know shit about what the old man does.”

Fitz nodded as he reached to grab the peanuts that were in the middle of the table. “He spends a lot of time in the command room, too. Asks lots of questions and always looking around.” Fitz popped a couple of peanuts in his mouth and glanced at the others. “Don’t think he likes me much, either. Keeps telling me I should be with my own Army.”

“Why _aren’t_ you with your own Army?” asked Clint.

“Doesn’t matter. The fact remains, the guy’s a pain in the ass,” Tony cut Fitz off before he could answer, and Clint shot Tony a frustrated look. Someday he’d figure out the answer to that question. Maybe.

“Don’t worry, Fitzy,” Bucky grinned as he reached to ruffle Fitz’s curly hair. “Bumlick doesn’t like fairies, either. He’s always givin’ Steve and me nasty looks.”

“He won’t even speak to me,” added Bruce quietly, “Unless it’s to ask where Tony is.”

“I give you permission to lie like a Persian rug next time he asks. Tell him I stole a plane to go take a stroll through a minefield or something,” joked Tony as he kissed the side of Bruce’s head gently, nuzzling into his hair before leaning back again.

Phil’s frown just kept getting deeper and deeper, and the confusion on his face getting more and more adorable the longer he listened to everyone talk. Clint almost burst out laughing when he saw Phil’s face, and had to lean in to kiss his head. When Phil’s guards were down, and he let himself be just one of the fellas, he was the most gorgeous guy in the world. Clint was pretty sure he’d be okay with spending the rest of his life cataloging every expression Phil had.

Finally, Phil shook his head and pulled back from Clint a little. “But… no, but Bumslick’s a good pilot, at least!”

The others erupted in laughter at Phil’s slurred slip, while Phil just looked even more confused.

“He is!” Phil insisted, completely missing the fact that wasn’t what they were laughing about.

Clint shook his head and kept chuckling under his breath.

“ _Bumslick_ ,” he paused as another chorus of snickers and laughter fluttered around the table, “may be a good pilot, but he’s _shit_ for a fighter. I’ve told you how many times he’s gotten into my sights and blocked my shots and then never done anything about it! Keeps insisting his guns jam up or some bullshit.”

Tony growled, tightening his grip on Bruce’s hip. “And it is bullshit! I check his guns each time he uses that line, there’s nothing wrong with them! And that’s another thing! He hangs around the planes too much! I mean, you guys hang around the planes too, but...you usually hang around your own, or at least with whoever the plane belongs to. Rimsucker hangs around other people’s planes without ‘em! I’ve chased him off a few times, for it.”

“Well...maybe you guys could try...try being a little _nicer_ to him?” Phil pouted and slid down the bench into a slouch. “I’m nice to him and he’s not a jackass to me.”

Huffing a laugh, Clint nodded and pulled Phil into his side again, gently tugging his head down onto Clint’s shoulder. “Sure. Right. We’ll try bein’ nice to him. Why not.”

“Hey!” Tony exclaimed suddenly, his eyes wide and arms flailing frantically. “Did you fella’s hear about the guy in the 168th who flew his Thunderbolt in while completely blind? Like, he physically could not see.”

Bucky and Steve both squawked in protest, shaking their heads in disbelief while Ward called bullshit before getting up to get the next round of drinks.

“No! Really! He did! His wingman had to guide him down!” Tony insisted.

And just like that, the conversation shifted from one thing to another, and continued on until the barkeeper had to run everyone out.

* * *

 

The first thing Phil was aware of when he finally started to slowly drift back to consciousness, was the sound of gently rolling thunder in the distance, followed by the rain pittering against his open window, the cars outside sloshing down the streets. The next thing he noticed was the fact he was in what was quite possibly the most comfortable bed in the world, and there was a warm body snuggled up behind him, a strong, solid arm holding him tight. And a lot of bare skin. _A lot_.

Phil’s head was throbbing in time with the thunder and he didn’t quite want to open his eyes to face even the rainy, dimmed grey light of day. He couldn’t remember a whole lot about the night before, except that it was probably the most relaxed he’d been in a long time, and that it felt good to be with people and laughing again. Oh, and alcohol, he definitely remembered there being plenty of alcohol. Probably too much, actually, now that he thought about it.

The body behind him shifted and grumbled unintelligibly before pulling away, leaving Phil cold against the cooler air of the room, and a moment later, the bed dipped as the figure stood and shuffled across the room. Phil still couldn’t open his eyes to figure out who it was, or where they were going, but he hoped the ‘who’ was an easy answer. In fact, he was certain he’d left the bar with Clint, and the subtle callouses on the hand that had been holding him seemed familiar enough through the hangover haze to have been Clint’s. He could relax then. So long as he hadn’t been tricked into going back to the hotel with any of the others, which he knew Clint would never allow, he’d be fine.

A minute or two later, just as Phil was starting to drift off to sleep again, the sound of running water from the next room filled the air, and a few seconds after that, Clint was climbing back into bed again to wrap around him from behind. Warm, light kisses fluttered over the back of his neck and shoulders until Clint was pressed completely against him again, and Phil sighed deeply in content.

“It’s 1500,” Clint murmured softly into Phil’s neck. “We missed bacon time. Think we can convince ‘em to make us some, anyway?”

Just the thought of food had Phil rolling his head to press his face into his pillow; no matter how good bacon actually sounded, his stomach still gurgled and rolled in protest of the idea. Phil felt Clint’s chuckle against his shoulder and wanted to glare at him for finding humor in Phil’s pathetic state. The best he could manage was a pinch to the back of Clint’s hand, instead.

“You’re not funny, Barton,” Phil grumbled, his voice like gravel and muffled by the pillow. Phil cringed as pain shot through his head again just from talking.

Clint tsked quietly and pushed himself up to press a kiss to Phil’s other shoulder before getting up out of bed again. “You stay here and get some more rest. I’ll be back in a little while. We’ll get you feelin’ better in no time.”

Phil opened his mouth to protest, or maybe to tell Clint off for being less hungover than him, but he could only groan and grumble in reply. And he most certainly wasn’t pouting as Clint pulled the blankets up over Phil’s head to block out the light for him. When the door to the room quietly clicked shut, Phil settled comfortably into the bed again, and allowed the sound of the gentle storm to slowly lull him back to sleep.

The rain was still falling outside when Phil woke up the second time, but the thunder seemed to have finally ebbed away, taking the dull throb of his headache with it. The room was darker and cooler than before, and Phil gave a pathetic groan as he stretched muscles that had stiffened while he slept the entire day away. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d literally slept all day without being seriously sick with something.

Rolling onto his back, Phil slowly pulled the blanket down off his head and blinked blearily against the dim glow of the bedside lamp. The window was open and from his room he had an excellent view of the sun setting in the west. A table and chair were placed next to the window, and curled up in the chair, staring out at the street below, was Clint, two plates of food sitting in front of him on the table. Being far less hungover than before when he’d been alone with Clint, Phil was able to appreciate the broad shoulders that were bare in front of him. He watched as Clint’s back muscles twitched and rippled as he sat, one knee pulled up into the chair with his arms wrapped around it.

Clint was absolutely gorgeous sitting there looking all pensive and thoughtful, dressed only in his khaki tan slacks. Phil almost didn’t want to break the spell, but his growling stomach didn’t give him a choice.

He pushed himself up out of bed and wrapped the duvet around his shoulders as he shuffled across the floor to drape across Clint’s back. Clint went tense under him for just a second before he relaxed and leaned into Phil’s chest, tilting his head to give Phil access to his neck and shoulder for kissing. Which Phil absolutely took that invitation to do.

“Hey,” Clint sighed, “feeling better?”

Phil hummed an affirmative and kept on nuzzling across Clint’s shoulder. He slid his arms around to rest his hands on Clint’s stomach, successfully wrapping them both up in the warm blanket.

“Time’s’it?” Phil murmured, his nose pressed to the crook of Clint’s neck.

“Almost 1945. You are dead to the world when you’re hungover, aren’t you?” teased Clint. He turned around in the chair, sitting to bracket Phil between his knees and put his hands on Phil’s hips, and looked up at him with an impish gleam in his eyes.

Phil quirked an eyebrow back at him, even while he knew his cheeks and ears were turning shades of pink. He moved his own hands to Clint’s shoulders, and the right one to the back of Clint’s head to play with the soft, thick hair at the nape of his neck. Phil loved watching the way Clint reacted whenever he would do that, the way his eyes would flutter and his breath stuttered, lips just slightly parted in the most innocent and yet obscene way possible.

“I told you I don’t drink much for a reason, didn’t I?” Phil answered while he trailed his dull nails up and down Clint’s neck.

Clint’s eyes were nearly completely closed and chill bumps were popping up across his shoulders when he finally answered. “Mm...yeah, guess ya did.”

Watching Clint intently as he leaned into Phil’s touches and rested his forehead on Phil’s bare stomach was not what Phil had originally planned to do when he’d gotten out of bed, but it sure was a nice sight. Nice enough that the thrill of standing in front of an open window, dressed only in a blanket, with his lover in a rather compromising position was starting to get his blood flowing again. Particularly south. Phil’s touch became feather light and his pulse doubled when Clint gave a shiver and a quiet, pleased sound.

“You know, since you’re down there anyway…” Phil trailed off with a suggestive smirk. He brought his hand up to firmly grip as much of Clint’s hair as possible and held it for a moment, long enough for Clint to groan and go pliant against him.

When Clint looked out at him from under his sinfully long, dark lashes, his deep blue-green eyes were a dark turquoise and burning with desire. Phil had only been teasing, well...half-teasing, maybe, but he really wasn’t expecting Clint to do anything, which meant he shouldn’t have been surprised when Clint leaned down to suck his half-hard cock down to the curls. His knees buckled and if he hadn’t been holding onto Clint, Phil would have fallen down and probably taken Clint with him.

The sounds that Clint made as he slurped and licked around Phil’s cock were beyond obscene, and only served to send the blood racing south all the faster. Clint gave head much in the same way he fought in a dogfight, with complete abandon and far more enthusiasm than one man should ever possess. Phil could feel the coil of tension building in the pit of his stomach as Clint sucked harder and harder, bringing him right to that edge, and then…

Clint pulled off with a sloppy pop and smack of his lips. He leaned back in the chair and pulled the blanket closed around Phil, all while keeping a devilish little smirk on his face.

“As much as I’d love to continue and get you off right here in front of the window,” Clint down right purred, gripping Phil’s hips and giving him a gentle shove backwards, “you’ve been sleeping all day. Sir, I’m sorry, but I’m going to have to order you to go take a piss, get washed up, eat something, for God’s sake drink something, and then get your naked ass back into bed so I can make you scream all night long.”

It took a full ten seconds for Phil’s brain to catch up to what Clint had said -- it was missing quite a bit of blood, after all -- and he groaned pathetically. He was painfully hard, and so close to the edge he could practically taste it, and Clint was going to be a fucking tease about it. Growling low in his throat, Phil narrowed his eyes at Clint threateningly, making like he was going to strangle him for a second before turning to shuffle off for the bathroom.

He wasn’t going to admit that he felt better once he’d gotten himself taken care of; there was no way Phil was going to give Clint that much satisfaction. It was bad enough Clint sat at the table smirking at him the entire time Phil was eating and sucking down water like it was about to go out of style. Still, once his plate was cleared, and he felt a bit more human, Phil stood from his chair and strolled back to the large, comfortable bed to sprawl across the covers again. The duvet was left pooled on the floor under the table.

One minute Phil was laying there, smirking suggestively across his shoulder; the next he was laughing into Clint’s mouth as he was pounced and rolled onto his back for a filthy and demanding kiss. Clint had promised to keep Phil up all night screaming, well, Phil just hoped their neighbors wouldn’t get upset, because he had every intention to let Clint do exactly what he promised.

* * *

 

The night so far had been mostly as Clint had sworn it would be: passionate and claiming sex with fingerprints bruised into hips and thighs and shoulders bright red crescent moon welts on arms and deep, dark, angry looking bruises sucked into places only they could see. It was obvious by the almost complete destruction of their room that their very enthusiastic and athletic lovemaking hadn’t just been confined to the bed, either, though that was where most of it had happened. Pillows were strewn across the floor, there was a sheet hanging off a lamp, and Phil was going to have a hard time explaining why he needed to pay for the replacement of one of the chairs.

This was not any of that.

Phil had Clint beneath him, back to chest, with a couple of pillows wedged under Clint’s hips to cant his ass up at a better angle so that Phil could easily slide in and out of him. This was slow and gentle, neither of them having the energy for it to be much else, but both knowing that once their R&R was over it was going to be hard to find time for much more than stolen kisses and the occasional handjob or two. Phil wasn’t foolish enough to take the opportunity to make love to Clint for granted. He knew -- hell, all the pilots knew -- that any night could be their last, so they had better make it count in all the ways that mattered most.

His elbows braced on the mattress on either side of Clint’s head, Phil leaned across Clint’s back and panted across his ear before gently taking it between his teeth. Clint gasped out and clutched at the bedsheets tighter, hips jerking under Phil. He whimpered Phil’s name repeatedly until Phil let go of his ear and pushed himself back up to get better leverage as he thrusted.

“Close?” Phil panted.

Clint whimpered again, but nodded quickly as he pushed himself up onto his elbows, then his hands.

Phil dipped his head down to press kisses across Clint’s broad shoulders and nuzzle his nose into the sweat-damp hair at the base of Clint’s neck. He tightened his hold on Clint’s hips for a few more thrusts before murmuring, “Roll over. I wanna watch you.”

Whining both at the sultry way Phil’s voice gave the instruction, and at the loss inside him, Clint quickly rolled onto his back and nudged a pillow out of his way. Phil was right there again as soon as he was flat on his back, hands on Clint’s hips and pushing himself right back inside. Phil’s own orgasm was about at the breaking point; it wouldn’t take much more than a few more well-placed thrusts before he was going over the edge.

He wrapped Clint’s legs around his waist as he got up onto his knees and relished the way Clint’s mouth fell open in a silent gasp when Phil hit at just the right spot. From this angle, Phil could watch Clint’s stomach muscles start to twitch as his pleasure grew and grew.

“Open your eyes,” whispered Phil. Clint groaned but kept his eyes closed, making Phil follow it closely with a firmer tone. “Clint, open your eyes.”

When Clint finally did, all the color was practically gone from them. He stared at Phil from under heavy lids. Sweat glistened off his body and had plastered his blond hair to his forehead. He was beyond gorgeous like this, and Phil found himself thrusting faster, harder, more desperate for them to both chase their relief. One...two...three more thrusts and Clint’s head was thrown into the one remaining pillow behind him, his neck exposed while his back arched off the mattress as come spurted across his stomach. It wasn’t much, but it was still enough to drive Phil on to a half dozen more shoves before he was collapsing over top of Clint, gasping into his ear as he came.

Phil didn’t know how long it took -- minutes? Hours? Who knew? -- before he finally had caught his breath and was able to move again. His flaccid cock slipped from Clint as he moved to roll himself onto his side, and then his back. A quick glance at the small bedside alarm clock told him it was well past 0300, and he groaned pathetically. He dropped his arm over his eyes and bemoaned the fact they were supposed to check out in less than five hours.

He sighed heavily and let himself rest for a moment before he pushed himself up off the bed and shuffled for the bathroom, promising Clint he’d be right back. How either of them were in any shape to move was beyond him, and having to fly any extended missions as soon as they got back to base was going to hurt like hell -- those cockpit seats were not at all the most comfortable things in the world. Grabbing up a wet cloth and tossing his last remaining pro into the trashcan, Phil made his way back into the bedroom and knew that it was all worth it.

Clint watched him with a sleepy, sated smile as Phil wiped him clean and then crawled back into bed beside him. If Phil could keep that look on Clint’s face for the rest of his life, he would; oh how he would. He pulled Clint into his side and smiled when Clint wrapped himself around Phil and rested his head on Phil’s chest contently. If only there wasn’t a war going on, Phil wanted to think maybe he and Clint could have met somewhere back in the States. Maybe they could have gotten a little place of their own in some sleepy little town -- no, second thought, maybe not a sleepy little town. Too strong of a chance they’d be run out. The city, then. Yeah, some city back home, Phil had always wanted to go to California, maybe Los Angeles then, where they could get a little bungalow and not have to worry about whether anything was going to happen to one of them or not.

Phil’s thoughts went scattering when Clint gently nosed into Phil’s neck and quietly murmured his name to get his attention. Phil rubbed soothing circles into Clint’s back and hummed in acknowledgement.

“Could you promise me something?” Clint asked quietly. He suddenly sounded far younger than his twenty-five years, and almost hesitant to go on.

“I can try,” answered Phil just as quietly.

Clint shifted against him and took a deep breath. He kept his face out of Phil’s sight and seemed to be trying to distract himself by drawing patterns into Phil’s flat stomach as he continued. “If anything happens to one of us -- I mean like, one of us gets sent back to the States or something, before this is all over -- or hell, even if it’s over all together. Ya know, like they finally call it quits and they’re gonna send everybody home and shit? Not that it’s gonna happen any time soon, but, I just mean, in general--”

Phil cut him off with a gentle, “Clint. What are you trying to ask me?”

It took another few seconds, and another deep breath, before Clint could finally answer. “What I’m tryin’ to say is...can we find each other after all this is over? I mean, can you promise that if one of us gets sent home or something, that we’ll find each other?”

Silence hung heavy in the air between them suddenly while Phil’s heart seemingly stopped cold in his chest. That kind of promise was just asking for trouble. It was like knocking on Fate’s front door and asking if they wanted to buy any cookies. Phil knew he shouldn’t make a promise like that, and yet he found himself hoping that maybe if he did, he could make sure that it happened. If Clint was asking that they find each other after the war, then that meant Clint wanted to be with him as much as Phil wanted to be with Clint, right?

Still… the tight lump in Phil’s chest was keeping him from saying anything reassuring.

“Clint…,” Phil sighed, gaping for a moment like a fish out of water, trying to find something else to say.

“No, I know, it’s stupid,” Clint shook his head against Phil’s shoulder and pressed himself a little bit closer. “But...just promise me that, okay? We can meet in the States. We’ll pick a spot, okay? You...we could meet at my farm!”

It was obvious Clint was growing a bit hysterical over this, and Phil sat up to properly pull Clint into his arms, even while he continued to ramble.

“It’s in Iowa! Waverly, Iowa. Anybody in town could tell you how to find it! Just ask anybody where Jacob and Esther Wooster’s old farm is at, they’ll tell ya. It was my grandparents’ place. My mom grew up there. We could meet there and, I mean, it’s not much and it’s kinda fallin’ to pieces cuz I never got to finish fixing it up, but we could meet there, and maybe it could be ours and we could fix it up together and...and…”

Phil pressed his lips to Clint’s gently, cutting off any more of the frantic words that were trying to tumble out. Clint always did so well at keeping his emotions and fears close to the vest, but they were both tired, and still high on post-orgasm bliss, a combination that Phil realized very quickly in their little relationship was a sure-fire way to get Clint to admit he was scared. Not that he’d actually say the words out right, “Phil, I’m scared.” No, Clint wouldn’t do that, but his tell would give him away. Rapid-fire talking that didn’t seem to have an end in sight; that’s how Phil knew Clint was scared.

When they pulled apart a few seconds later, Clint seemed to have calmed himself down, even though his right hand still had a fierce death grip on Phil’s shoulder. Phil stared into his eyes for a moment, searching to make sure his Clint was back with him and would fully understand him when he answered.

Finally satisfied, Phil gave a small nod, even while he swallowed down his own fears, and brought up a small, brave smile. “Yeah, Clint,” he murmured, “Yeah. I promise. We’ll meet at your grandparents’ farm when this is all over.”

Somehow Phil had the feeling it really wasn’t so much about the actual act of meeting at the farm, as it was about just saying the words and making the promise that Clint needed to hear. As soon as Clint heard Phil promise, his entire body relaxed in Phil’s lap. Phil watched the soft, dopey smile spread across Clint’s face again before he found himself being kissed and pulled back down on the mattress.

“Good,” Clint whispered, barely pulling his mouth away from Phil’s. “Good, I promise, too.”

Phil’s own smile was soft and fond as he settled himself onto the pillow and pulled Clint back against him. He kept one arm around Clint’s shoulders as Clint nestled in and used Phil for a body pillow, and with his free arm, Phil reached to click the single light next to the bed off.

“Get some sleep, Clint,” he whispered, brushing a kiss across Clint’s soft hair. “We’ve got a long day ahead of us.”

 


	15. Chapter 15

 

September 1943

A chill had settled into the air and the leaves were slowly beginning to change colors in the trees surrounding the air base. It wouldn’t be long before it’d be too cold for Clint and Phil to take their nightly strolls through the woods, which was why Clint was going to enjoy it while he could. They didn’t usually talk about anything in particular, sometimes they didn’t even talk at all, but were content in each other’s quiet company as they made their way down darkened paths, carefully stepping over fallen trees.

The full moon hung heavy above them, a pale yellow-orange glow and looking far larger than it should. It almost looked like someone had cut it out of paper and just pasted it onto the deep, dark, velvety-purple sky. Clint and Phil had made their way through the woods and were laying out on the grass just past the tree line, staring up at it and watching as the stars slowly twinkled to life. They were lying side by side, their hands clasped between them and Clint’s right leg draped over Phil’s left. Their whispers drifted on the cool autumn breeze as they talked about the mission they were going to have to fly the next morning. They were prolonging having to go back to base and separating for the night, trying to squeeze just a few more minutes together in the quiet English countryside before they’d have to go back for sleep, and then to the deafening roar of their airplanes.

“Banner’s been cleared by the doc,” Phil murmured.

Clint hummed in acknowledgment. “Tony told me at supper. So, we’re gonna have him back for the mission tomorrow then?”

It was Phil’s turn to hum quietly. “Mmhmm. I want you to keep an eye on him tomorrow if you can. Rand is still his wingman, but I’d feel better if you could just…”

“Not a problem,” Clint caught on quickly; he knew what Phil was trying to say and completely agreed. Bruce was his friend, and while Rand was a damn good pilot, Clint wanted to keep an eye on him himself, just to be sure he didn’t get surprised again.

The stillness of the night fell over them again, wrapping around them like a comfortable blanket, the silence only broken by the few nocturnal critters who were scurrying about in the woods behind them. Phil’s thumb was stroking gently across the back of Clint’s hand, tracing the tendons and prominent veins that stuck out and following the hill-valley-hill of his knuckles. It was a soft and intimate touch, but not in the way their touches usually were. Most of the time if they were touching, it was in a way that would lead to desperate kisses and frantic hands struggling to get clothes off as quickly as possible. This touch was gentle and calming, and it did things to Clint that surprised the hell out of him. It made his chest ache, right where his heart was, and tied his stomach up in fluttery knots.

Somehow, that gentle touch felt more claiming and possessive than anything else they’d ever done together; and seeing Phil beside him, bathed in the pale moonlight with the soft, wistful smile on his face, stole Clint’s breath away. Clint turned onto his side before propping himself on his elbow so he could look down at Phil and use his free hand to reach out and touch Phil’s cheek. Phil blinked his bright grey eyes up at him in confusion while Clint stroked his fingertips along Phil’s jaw, up to his ear, pausing to twist a small clump of fine hair between thumb and index finger before moving to cup Phil’s cheek again. The soft stubble of the day’s growth tickled his palm and Clint brushed his thumb just under Phil’s eye.

Without a word, Clint leaned down to press their lips softly together. It wasn’t a kiss meant to start anything, it was just meant to try and convey all the feelings Clint knew he would never be able to say. Clint kept it gentle and undemanding while still being passionate: a single nip at Phil’s lower lip, their tongues stroking against each others in a quiet give-and-take.

When Clint finally pulled back, Phil was smiling up at him, but there was confusion still in his fond gaze. And when he brought his own hand up to touch Clint’s cheek, Clint leaned into the warmth of Phil’s palm like a touch-starved kitten.

“What was that for?” Phil asked in barely more than a whisper.

Clint swallowed hard and shrugged. “Because I…” he trailed off, not able to finish the words he wanted to say. “Because I wanted to.”

Phil smiled a bit brighter as he shook his head fondly. “C’mon,” he murmured, moving to sit up. “We should be heading back to base.”

“No,” Clint quickly put his hand on Phil’s chest, pushing him back down to the grass and making sure he couldn’t get up again. “Not yet. Please? Just five more minutes?”

It wasn’t that terribly late, Clint knew that for a fact, it wouldn’t hurt anything for them to spend just five little minutes more alone in the moonlight. Just the idea of going back to an empty bed made Clint’s skin crawl. At least Tony and Bruce slept across from each other; Clint and Phil had to sleep in entirely different buildings. Plus, Clint had Rumlow sleeping across from him, and that guy was in no way, shape, or form a decent replacement for Phil.

Sighing in mock defeat, Phil shook his head fondly and thumbed under Clint’s eye gently. “Well, seeing as how I’m trapped at the moment, it looks like I don’t have much of a choice, do I?”

Grinning, Clint shook his head once. “Nope. You’re stuck until I let you up.”

“Oh darn,” Phil answered sarcastically. Smirking, he pulled Clint down by his tie for another slow, searching kiss.

* * *

 

Tony reached his arms high above his head as he bent himself backwards as far as he could while walking. He ached from the hair down, and one day he was quite possibly going to tell Lieutenant Richards where he could stuff his perfectly pristine tools and checklists and inventories. He didn’t care if Richards had been there longer than him, Tony just _knew_ he was better than Richards at, well, just about everything, really. Reed Richards belonged in a laboratory somewhere, not out getting his hands dirty doing repairs on planes and jeeps. Tony on the other hand? Tony loved getting his hands dirty and taking things apart to see how they worked, and then putting them back together -- only doing it even better than it’d originally been.

Which was what had tossed him into hot water with Richards and found him staying in the mechanics’ hangar later than usual, organizing and cleaning basically the entire shop. All because he’d taken something Richards had been working on, and done it even better. Hey, Tony got the damn contraption to work, Richards should have been _thanking_ him.

Coming around a corner, Tony stopped dead in his tracks, his left arm frozen in a stretch across his chest while his eyes were glued on the dark figure hopping down off the wing of Scott Lang’s plane. Tony had just seen Lang a minute ago heading for Officers’ Club, so it wasn’t him. This guy wasn’t nearly as lean as Lang, anyway. This guy was far more compact, with broader shoulders. Tony watched as the shadow moved to the next plane and started messing around silently by the propeller.

The line of planes sat in the darkness, only the faint glow of the distant lights giving shape to where things were. Tony moved as quietly as he could, sneaking around one plane and then the wing of another until he finally was able to see who it was that was messing around with the planes when they shouldn’t be.

“Rumlow?” He called cautiously through the darkness. The figure froze and slowly turned to face him. “Rumlow, what the hell are you doing to my babies. They’re resting. Don’t you know these girls need their beauty sleep?”

A sneer distorted Rumlow’s face while he took three steps closer to Tony. Tony, in turn, took four steps backwards. Something wasn’t right here. Something was very, very wrong. No one was supposed to be messing with the planes except for the mechanics, and the pilots. But even the pilots were only supposed to be fiddling around with their own planes, not anyone else's, so why was Rumlow dicking around with the front of Rand’s plane?

“You all disgust me,” Rumlow snarled, and there was _definitely_ something wrong with his voice. He sounded almost… _German_. That couldn’t be right. Tony shook his head quickly and folded his arms over his chest.

“Well, Sunshine, you aren’t exactly the most beloved flyboy around here either, so…”

Rumlow took another step forward, which Tony countered with two more steps back. It felt like a really bad dance routine, and Tony wasn’t exactly the best dancer to begin with.

“Everyone here is nothing but a disgrace to the human race. Abominations. And you,” Rumlow’s lip curled as he narrowed his eyes at Tony, “son of one of the greatest mechanical engineers of our time, and you’re a fucking fairy.”

Tony swallowed hard while his heart jumped a few RPMs and his palms turned clammy. His mind was racing, telling him to either knock Rumlow out or turn tail and run for Coulson. Unfortunately, Tony never was one for running, and his mouth always started working before his fists ever could.

“I prefer the term queer, but, personal preferences, ya know?”

Again, Rumlow sneered at him, completely ignoring Tony’s glib reply. He reached into his pocket as he took another step towards Tony, never taking his eyes off him. “Der Führer knows all about you, _Stark_. He knows about how you’ve been screwing _Dr_. Bruce Banner, and he’s very, very disappointed to hear about that.”

Like a bucket of ice water falling on his head, Tony’s entire body went cold. _Der Führer. Hitler. No, oh no, not good. Definitely not good_. Licking his lips and gulping past the lump in his throat, Tony shrugged and quickly glanced over his shoulder towards the rest of the camp. There was no one else around; no one who could get there fast enough if he were to yell for help.

“He’d been hoping I could bring you both in and we could show you just what kind of good your minds could be put towards,” shaking his head, Rumlow kept talking as he inched closer, “but instead, you’re both fucking each others brains out. Ruining what could be a gloriously good thing.”

Tony coughed and cleared his throat, finally getting to the tail end of a plane. It was open field behind him, he could have plenty of time to make a break for it and run for help. If only his mouth would shut up. “Technically, Bruce and I don’t fuck each other’s brains out. Sex is about the last thing he’s interested in. Now cuddles we do like there’s no tomorrow, so, if you’re gonna hate us because we’re cuddlers--”

“Don’t you ever just _shut up_?” Rumlow snapped, finally pulling his hand from his pocket, a long metal flint striker coming with it. It was the one Tony so often used for starting up the torch when he needed to weld bits back together on the planes. “It doesn’t _matter_! You’re both fairies! He should have died when I shot up his plane. That was my own fault, I missed my mark, and I’ve had to live with that ever since. And then _Barton_ had to save him a _second_ time when my backup plan failed.”

A lead weight settled in Tony’s stomach as he watched Rumlow pull a soggy red rag from his belt loop and hold it towards the flint striker.

Glaring, Rumlow’s face twisted into a sadistic grin. “But I’m not going to fail this time. I took a pledge to help rid the world of the inferior races, and I’m going to do what I came to do, right now.”

Sweat rolled down Tony’s cheek and it was suddenly hard to breathe, what with the fresh night air steadily filling with the smell of gasoline. His mind went into overdrive as he frantically looked around him. The planes! Rumlow had been cutting the fuel lines on the planes! He’d sabotaged Bruce’s plane to try and kill him all those weeks ago, and now he was going to start blowing them up, and God only knew what else!

Eyes wide, Tony turned and started running as fast as he could. The last thing he heard as he took off down the grass path towards the Officers’ Club was Rumlow’s yell of “ _HEIL HILTER_!” Tony had to warn someone! Anyone! _Everyone_! He had to…

* * *

 

The first explosion had startled Phil and Clint apart, the ground trembling under them as they scrambled to their feet. The first was followed by a second, and a third, and a fourth! Orange and yellow light glowed through the woods before two more, far more intense, explosions rattled the bedrock and sent the birds sleeping peacefully in the trees screeching into the sky. Thick plumes of grey and black smoke were already billowing up above the trees, filling the air with the rancid scent of burning rubber and wood.

Clint ran as fast as his legs would carry him, hurtling over the fallen limbs and bodies of ancient trees long dead. The sounds of sirens from the base were screaming to life, and the closer they got, the louder the yelled orders for water and medics became. His heart was beating fast enough to power a bomber, and if his feet had been propellers, he would have easily taken flight. Clint didn’t even bother to see if Phil was right behind him as he bolted out of the trees and was hit by the oppressive wall of heat coming from the burning base.

Everywhere Clint looked, it was chaos. Some of it was organized -- like the men rushing to and fro trying to get water to put various small fires out as they sprang up -- but most of it was just pure chaos. He heard Phil behind him finally start shouting orders as they dodged past the burning briefing hut and came out into the open more.

That was when Clint could see the full scope of destruction around them. At least eight planes were in flames, and men were struggling to get them under control before they could spread to the others. Half the hangar was burning, the other half was starting to smoke, and it was a damn good thing the fuel station was far enough away from the rest of the camp that they didn’t have to worry about that suddenly going up, too. There were screams coming from within the Officers’ Club, horrified and frantic, trapped somewhere inside the building. The sound was sickening before it was abruptly silenced when the alcohol exploded inside, blowing out the one remaining window and sending glass shards shooting in every direction.

Clint broke away from Phil as both men ran in opposite directions to try and help where they could; Phil barking orders as he went. There wasn’t time to think about any lost lives just yet, they had to get the fires under control before they spread any more than they already were.

A cry went up near the mechanics’ hangar for people to hit the dirt just seconds before yet another deafening explosion rocked the base and sent debris flying into the sky. Clint dropped to his stomach and threw his arms over the back of his head, trying to protect himself if anything landed on him. Not like it’d do a whole lot of good, but the action was at least somewhat comforting in the back of his mind.

A split-second later he was back on his feet, racing for what was left of the hangar. He’d just about made it when he saw legs sticking out from under debris. Bile rose up in his throat, but he lunged for it anyway, yanking what was left of a Mustang wing off the man’s back, and froze. Dark hair and dirty coveralls.

“Tony?” Clint whimpered, “Tony!”

Carefully as he could, Clint rolled his best friend enough that he could feel around on his neck for a pulse. Tony groaned and finally cried out, one hand grasping white-knuckled at Clint’s pant leg. Relief washed over Clint strong enough to nearly bring him to his knees. Tony was alive. He might not be in the best of shape, but he was alive.

“Hang on, pal, just hang on. You’re gonna be okay.” The mindless reassuring words were tumbling out of Clint’s mouth faster than he could think them while Tony clung to his leg for dear life, and Clint frantically scanned the area for an available medic.

Everything was moving too fast, and yet felt as if it was trudging through thick molasses. Clint could see guys running every which way, and he could hear the orders getting barked by anyone with their wits still about them enough to give orders, but he couldn’t make out faces or insignias. All he could do was scream for a medic until his throat was raw.

It wasn’t until a pair of hands took him by the shoulders, and another pair took hold of Tony that Clint was finally able to focus again. Reed Richards was pulling him away from Tony gently, calmly telling him to breathe and focus while Bruce sprang into action checking Tony over. All Clint could do was watch Bruce move, murmuring quietly to Tony that things were going to be okay and that they were going to get him help.

Tony coughed and groaned, his dark eyes closed as he shook his head and struggled to speak, “R-Ru...Rumlow...Na…”

“Shh,” Bruce shook his head and motioned for Richards to help him. “Don’t speak, Tony. Just stay still and don’t speak. It’s gonna be okay. I’m sure Rumlow’s around here somewhere.”

Without giving Tony a chance to say anything else, Bruce was giving orders for Richards to gently help him lift Tony and carry him off towards the makeshift triage that was being set up near the mess hall. Clint was vaguely aware of the fact his hands were shaking. _Rumlow_. Tony had been trying to tell them something about Rumlow, but what?

Pushing himself to his feet again, Clint forced himself to keep breathing and to start moving again. There were other people who needed help, he had to keep moving. Bruce and Richards would get Tony taken care of, Clint had to help the others now.

Distantly the sounds of emergency vehicles from the neighboring towns reached his ears, just as more help was arriving. A group of firemen were already uncurling hoses from a truck and hooking them to another that was filled with water, pointing the nozzles towards the hangar and line of burning airplanes. It wouldn’t take them terribly long to get the fires under control, they didn’t need Clint’s help.

Clint could hear Lucky barking somewhere on base and ran towards the sound. In all the chaos, he’d forgotten about his loyal little mutt. As he ran, he could hear others calling Lucky’s name and praising him.

“He’s found another one! Good boy, Luck! Over here!” someone was yelling, and Clint followed the rush of soldiers that were running for what was left of the command center.

There was a small fire burning, but nothing compared to the others. Instead, it was stone rubble, with bits of broken rafter wood sticking up like spikes. Lucky was standing on what was left of a desk, his front end stuffed into a hole between rocks and butt in the air, his tail wagging frantically. Clint helped the others pull the rubble away and paused just long enough to ruffle Lucky’s ears as the dog bounced out of the way and spun, happy that he was able to help.

Buried under all the stone and broken rafters were Grant Ward and Leo Fitz. Ward was lying half on top of Fitz, a wood beam across his back, pinning him down on the motionless little Scotsman. Once the debris was moved, Ward was responsive. He hurt like hell, but he didn’t think he was seriously injured. Fitz, however, had yet to even so much as whimper.

More men appeared at Clint’s side, scrambling to get in to see Ward and Fitz. They talked like medics, so Clint didn’t try to shove them back, but it was close. He waited until he had assurance that Fitz was still breathing before he stumbled back and gave them room to work.

Absently, Clint took count in his head. He’d seen Steve for a brief second when Clint and Phil first arrived, but he hadn’t seen or heard Bucky. Tony he found under a Mustang wing, and Bruce and Richards had shown up to help take care of him. Lucky was in his glory as an impromptu search-and-rescue dog, and Fitz and Ward were both found and alive. And he already knew Phil was fine, so he wasn’t worried about him. Clint thought he heard Wade over the roar of one of the fires, issuing orders and sounding very much sane for once in his life.

There were only a handful of others Clint hadn’t spotted yet, and that was enough to make his stomach churn all over again. He forced his fears back down while turning to run off towards the next pile of debris. There was still a lot of work to be done before he could let himself dwell on any one thought for too long.

* * *

 

It was a week before Clint saw Phil again for more than a few seconds in passing. The base was slowly, so slowly, putting itself back together again. Scorch marks had been found leading from the planes to the buildings that had been blown up, a sign that Rumlow had planted explosives in strategic places and ran fuses out to the flight line, where once the planes were burning, the fuses would ignite and race their way to the bombs. Bombs that had taken out a number of their buildings -- the command center, briefing hut, mechanic’s hangar, and Officers’ Club to name a few. Next to what was left of the hangar, more than a quarter of their planes were nothing more than burnt-out shells lying dead on blackened grass, waiting to be hauled away for scrap. A lot of good planes were lost that night, and a lot of damn good pilots.

Clint didn’t know the total number of the men they’d lost, but he did know that Tony was surprisingly going to be fine -- he wasn’t injured enough to earn a ticket home, and oh Clint had practically heard him complaining about that half way across camp -- and that Bucky Barnes was going to be on the first transport back to the States as soon as he was well enough to be moved. A piece of debris from one of the many explosions caught his left arm just above his elbow, and the surgeons in town had done the best they could, but there just was no saving his arm. Clint felt a twinge of empathy for Bucky and Steve; he didn’t know what he’d do if Phil were sent home and he had to stay behind.

Last he had heard about Fitz was that the young man was still in a coma, but seemed to be doing fairly well considering the fact he had a building fall on his head. Ward had apparently dived to cover him when the explosions first started off, fearing it was a stealth night bombing. He’d done what he could to protect Fitz, but it hadn’t been enough. A chunk of rafter still cracked him upside the skull, and it was now a waiting game to see when -- not if, _when_ \-- Fitz would wake up again.

Rumlow’s body had finally been recovered amidst the wreckage of planes, or what was left of him, anyway. Clint hadn’t bothered to shed any tears when the military coroners showed up and hauled his body off, he just hoped that they mailed that ratbastard’s charred remains to old Adolf with a nice note telling him to count his days cuz he was about to rot in Hell, because the 187th was going to be coming for him.

Most of the barracks hadn’t been touched by the explosions, or the fires, except for Phil’s. Who knew, maybe Rumlow had thought if he blew up Phil, then the squadron wouldn’t be so full of queers anymore. Nobody knew what the hell Rumlow’s end game had been, and no one gave a rat’s ass. He’d failed to take Phil’s life, and that was what mattered most to Clint. What was left of Phil’s things had been moved into a spare room in the higher-ranking Officers’ barracks, which was now also doubling as a command center until a new one could be built, and was where Clint was heading in hopes of at least getting to spend a few minutes with Phil alone. He missed Phil, and after the nightmares he’d been having the past few nights, having Phil in his arms for at least thirty seconds was all he needed to help calm his wrecked nerves.

Clint knocked twice on Phil’s door before he walked in. Instantly he felt his shoulders relax at the sight of Phil sitting at his borrowed desk, hunched over and scribbling at forms, a deep furrow digging across his forehead. When he shut the door quietly behind him, Clint felt a weight lift from his chest and it suddenly became a hundred times easier to breathe.

Phil never glanced up from what he was working on, but that was fine, Clint knew that Phil knew he was there. That was the only warning he needed to give Phil before Clint was coming around the side of the desk and pulling him up into a tight, reassuring hug. He just needed the reminder that Phil was okay, and that they were both still alive and whole.

Which was why, when Phil pushed himself out of Clint’s arms with a scowl and huff, Clint’s face fell into an expression of confused hurt.

“Barton, I’m busy,” Phil grumbled, shaking his head while striding purposefully towards a filing cabinet. “What do you need?”

Clint blinked twice and shifted awkwardly on his feet. Phil hadn’t called him just by his last name in ages. “Sorry. I just… I’ve missed you. Wanted to see you.”

There was a cold and closed-off look on Phil’s face that had a knot forming in the pit of Clint’s stomach. He stood next to the desk quietly for a moment, just watching Phil bustle around the small room, suddenly  unsure of himself. It had been months since Phil was that short with him, and made him feel like he’d done something wrong.

Turning back for his desk, Phil nodded twice but never bothered to look up to meet Clint’s eyes. “Well, you’ve seen me, now will you please leave me alone? I’m trying to keep this squadron from being completely disbanded and I don’t need any more distractions.”

A stab of hurt hit Clint right in the stomach. He swallowed past the massive lump in his throat and took a slow, steady breath. “Distractions?” he asked cautiously, shaking his head. “What are you talking about, ‘any more distractions’, Phil? What--”

Phil’s stern glare finally met Clint’s, and Clint was quickly silenced by the cold steel Phil’s eyes had become. “This whole thing,” Phil waved his hand in motion of the base, never once taking his gaze off Clint, “could have all been avoided if I wasn’t so damn distracted all the time! I should have seen the signs that Rumlow was a spy! If I hadn’t--”

It was Clint’s turn to jump in before Phil could finish his sentence, and the hurt that had been twisting in his stomach was quickly churning itself into anger. “Hey! We’d told you, I dunno how many times, that there was something off with Rumlow! That we didn’t trust him! You’re the one who kept telling us we just had to be ‘ _nice_ ’ to the guy! Don’t go blaming this shit on distractions! You didn’t have anything distracting you.”

“Like Hell I didn’t,” Phil muttered angrily. He finally looked away from Clint and moved to shoulder past him again, going back to the filing cabinet to start fingering through forms again.

Clint blinked and drew back just slightly, like he couldn’t believe what he was hearing. And he couldn’t, really. If Phil was saying what Clint thought he was saying, then, Phil was blaming _him_ for all of this.

Swallowing hard again, Clint licked at his lips. “What?” he asked quietly, trying very hard to keep his voice level.

Phil turned to glare at Clint again through narrowed eyes. “I said like Hell I didn’t have any distractions. I had plenty of them, and a big, cocky one especially.”

He slammed the drawer of the filing cabinet closed and walked around to the other side of the desk, completely avoiding going past Clint. The fire roared back to life in Clint’s stomach, setting the rest of him ablaze at Phil’s implication that Clint was the reason Phil was supposedly distracted, and why their base got blown to bits by a Nazi spy.

“Oh, so, what? Now I’m a _distraction_?” Clint fumed. His hands clenched into fists at his side and he had to force himself to flex his fingers before he accidentally hauled off and hit something. Like Phil’s face.

“Of course you’re a distraction, Barton!” exclaimed Phil as he slammed a file down on his desk and stared back at Clint again. “You have been since the moment you walked onto this base! And out here, distractions can be deadly! You saw what’s left of the command center! What’s left of our planes! Stark is lucky to be alive, and none of this would have happened if I hadn’t been distracted and pre-occupied. With you.” He reached out, jabbing his finger into the center of Clint’s chest for emphasis. They stood there staring at each other for what felt like ages before Phil shook his head and turned his attention back to his work. When he spoke, his tone was level and firm, but almost absent, like he were talking out loud to himself. “It’s a mistake that’s cost us too much, and that I’m not going to let happen again.”

Clint felt that like a sucker punch to the gut. _Mistake_. Just the way Phil had uttered it had been enough to knock the wind out of Clint’s lungs, and send his heart crumbling to his toes.

“Mistake?” Clint finally repeated, voice quietly betraying his confusion and hurt.

“That’s right,” Phil answered, never looking up from his paperwork. “Mistake.”

The world was suddenly going pear shaped around him and Clint had to lean his shoulder against the wall to keep from slipping. This couldn’t be happening. He was dreaming, it was another horrible nightmare, it had to be. That was the only explanation for this. Clint dug his nails hard into the palm of his hand, and when that didn’t satisfy his racing mind, he bit down hard on the inside of his lip. The explosion of pain and rush of metallic-tasting blood was finally enough to prove this was really happening. Phil thought they were a mistake. That Clint was a distraction.

“So… now I’m a distraction, _and_ a mistake.” Clint muttered to himself as he nodded and gulped again, still trying to get that lump dislodged from his throat.

The fact that Phil had started to ignore him, like he wasn’t even there anymore, only served to add fuel to the angry flames burning in Clint’s very soul. So Phil -- fuck it, _Coulson_ \-- turned out to be just like everyone else Clint had ever cared for, after all. He’d served his purpose, and now he was getting tossed aside like yesterday’s news. Story of his life.

Nodding, Clint sniffled once and stood up straight again. He forced himself to stand with his shoulders squared and back, and his chin lifted just so. The perfect little fucking soldier.

“Ya know somethin’, _Major_?” Clint ground out through his teeth, and oh he hoped like Hell Coulson could feel his glare burrowing through the side of his head. “You an’ my old man would have gotten along real swell. Accordin’ to both of you, and everybody else I’ve ever met, I’m the biggest fucking mistake to ever walk this Goddamn Earth. And with all due respect _sir,_ fuck you.”

Clint never even gave a second glance as he turned and stormed from the small office, slamming the door hard behind him. He doubted Coulson would have even glanced up or acknowledged him anyway. This was the second time Coulson had regretted being with Clint, had thought they were a mistake. Maybe he was right. Maybe they were and Clint had just been too damn blind to realize it. But Clint had never thought they were a mistake. They were good together. In the air, they might as well have had one single brain shared between them.

Storming back to his lonely, empty room, Clint dropped himself down onto his bed and shoved his face into his pillow to let out the soul-wrenching scream that had been trying to come out. Why couldn’t he ever be good enough for anyone to be proud of him? What was so wrong with him that everyone eventually told him what kind of mistake he was in their lives?

Why couldn’t he just have someone who loved him, even just a little bit, and didn’t think he was their biggest mistake?

 


	16. Chapter 16

 

October 1943

Clint lay stretched out on what had to be the most uncomfortable bed he’d ever been on in his life. He was pretty sure hospital beds weren’t exactly _meant_ to be comfortable, but they could at least try to be. After all, a lot of guys had to be in them for a pretty long time, it only made sense that they’d at least be comfortable and not developing muscle aches all up and down their backs because of the damn things. With his legs out in front of him and crossed at the ankles, Clint flicked another card expertly into the clean bedpan at his boot-clad feet.

“So, when are you getting let out of here again?” Clint asked absently. He turned his head to look across the short aisle to where Tony was propped up with an obnoxious amount of pillows, and flicked another card into the bedpan without looking.

Tony huffed, shaking his head as he scooped more pudding onto his spoon. “Aw, Boo Bear, do you miss me or something?”

Clint rolled his eyes while pushing himself up to a sitting position to retrieve his cards. “The bunk’s too damn quiet without you being in there mackin’ on Bruce’s neck all the time like some damned vampire.”

At the foot end of Tony’s bed, Bruce quickly lifted his head at the same time as he lowered his book, stammering quietly. Tony nudged his foot against Bruce’s side as he smiled, shaking his head reassuringly. Clint was just teasing them, everything was fine. Ever since Tony had come to enough to explain all that he knew about the explosion, Bruce had become increasingly resistant to letting people know about what he and Tony were to each other. He didn’t want anyone else to try and blow their base up because of them, he’d said.

“So if you’re that lonely, go snack on your own guy’s neck, you perv,” Tony tossed back at Clint before shoving his spoonful of pudding into his mouth.

Pain lanced through Clint’s chest at Tony’s tease, making him flinch like he’d been physically hit. If only he could. It had been two and a half weeks since Coulson had told Clint he was a mistake and a distraction, and in that time Clint hadn’t seen Coulson even once. Well, at least not up-close.

The base was slowly piecing itself back together, and it was going to be another week or so before they’d be ready to start flying missions again, so until then everyone was on stand down. Clint took to helping Wade distribute meals to the men still in the infirmary so that he could spend a bit of time with Bruce and Tony before going out to help with the rebuilding efforts. Most of the time, Coulson stayed holed up in his borrowed office, but there were a few times when Clint saw him striding purposefully across the grounds to check up on things.

In fact, he’d apparently been in the infirmary talking to Tony just before Clint had arrived.

Clint dropped his legs over the side of the bed, bracing his hands on the edge of the mattress while he swung his feet lazily. “Hey, so, did ya’s hear the news?” He asked, changing the subject with the greatest ease. “Some big wig, higher-up is gonna be coming into camp in a week or two. Guess we finally caught their attention and he’s gonna come award us with medals or something. I dunno, Wade had his mouth full of mashed potatoes when he told me about it.”

“Why would we be getting medals?” asked Bruce, confusion furrowing across his forehead.

“I dunno, valor or something?” Clint shrugged as he reached across the aisle to grab the crackers off Tony’s tray. “Coulson’s supposed to be gettin’ a promotion or somethin’ too, I think.”

Tony whistled low, a coy smirk on his face as he quickly finished off the rest of his food before Clint could steal it all. “A promotion, huh? Guess it won’t matter when I’m released then, you’re not gonna be in the barracks anyway. Someone is _definitely_ going to have a good screw that night.”

Scoffing, Clint shook his head with a self-depreciating half-smile. “Somebody probably will,” he answered as he shoved himself back to his feet and reached to pick up Tony’s now-empty tray, “but it sure as hell ain’t gonna be me.”

Clint didn’t give either of them time to ask what he meant before he was starting for the exit, the empty tray in hand. “I’ll see ya fellas later. I gotta get back out to help the others.”

* * *

 

Phil stood in the doorway at the opposite end of the recovery room, partially hidden by the privacy screen that was set up, watching as Clint excused himself. Phil had started to come back into the room with a tray of food for Bruce and Tony when he’d seen Clint stretched out on the bed across from Tony’s, and maybe he was being ridiculous, but Phil couldn’t help but stand there and watch the three interact.

His heart ached and twisted painfully in his chest when he saw how downtrodden Clint looked, and how his smile didn’t even begin to reach his eyes when he moved to stand and take the tray away. Phil had screwed up big time, and he knew it -- God, did he know it -- but it had to be done. Whether Clint accepted that or not, Phil had pushed him away for his own good. At least, that’s what Phil kept telling himself. It made it just a little easier to sleep at night, if he kept telling himself that.

Glancing down to the tray of food, Phil took a breath and turned to start back out the doors he’d come in through and turned left down a small, empty hallway. It was clear Tony didn’t need lunch, and Phil was pretty sure Bruce had probably nipped things off Tony’s tray and would go get his own food when he felt like it, which left him with a meal in need of a home. He paused outside a small room and glanced inside. Fitz was lying motionless on the bed, head still wrapped and his eyes closed; he looked like he was simply sleeping, but Phil knew better.

Beside the bed, Ward sat just as motionless on the hard, wooden chair. His dark hair was a mess, like he’d run his fingers through it repeatedly and never bothered to smooth it back down again, and heavy, dark bags were drooping under his eyes. Ward was bent forward, his elbows propped on his knees and hands clasped in front of his mouth, chin supported only by his thumbs, as he continued to just stare at the bed. Almost like he was mentally trying to will Fitz to wake up.

Phil took a step into the room and knocked lightly on the doorframe to get Ward’s attention. He waved Ward off when the Lieutenant had moved to stand, and came in further to set the tray down beside Fitz’s legs on the bed.

“You looked like you could use a good meal,” Phil said, and okay, maybe it was a lie. Ward didn’t need to know that. Giving a small smirk, Phil shrugged. “All I could come up with was some of Wilson’s cooking, though.”

Ward stared for a moment before he huffed and shook his head at Phil’s dry joke. “Thank you, sir.”

Coming to stand alongside Ward, Phil nodded absently. “How’s he doing?” he asked quietly, not able to take his eyes off Fitz. Out of the corner of his eye, Phil watched the way Ward took a deep, steadying breath before he answered.

“They think the swelling has gone down in his skull, and his cuts and bruises have mostly all healed. The doctors are hopeful that he’ll be waking up soon, but, no one’s really sure about that.”

Phil hummed and nodded thoughtfully before he finally turned his head to look at Ward. “And how are you doing?”

Ward blinked in surprise. Phil knew that Ward had also been injured in the explosion, maybe not as badly as some of the others, but he was still injured. Plus, there had to be some kind of emotional hurt that Ward wasn’t letting show at the fact his best friend was lying unconscious in a hospital bed.

“I’m fine, sir,” Ward answered stiffly. “The doctors have all cleared me. If you need me back out there, I can--”

“No. No, that’s fine,” Phil shook his head, quickly cutting Ward off before he could say anything else. “That’s not exactly what I was asking, Lieutenant.”

Suddenly, it was like someone stuck a pin in Ward’s shoulder the way he deflated and hunched over his knees again. He looked exhausted in every sense of the word. For a moment, it seemed like he wasn’t going to answer, and Phil was prepared to let him just sit in silence, but finally the quiet words started filling the space between them.

“Fitz is my best friend, sir. He told me I was the first person to treat him just like everyone else, and not like some freak because of how smart he was -- _is_. No one ever knew how to talk to him. Not even his own mother.”

Ward’s voice was quiet and thoughtful, like he could relate to what he was saying about Fitz, and Phil supposed Ward probably could, given what he knew about Ward’s past. Phil didn’t say anything, he just stood by silently in case Ward had anything else to say.

“I’m not sure what I would do if Fitz didn’t wake up from this,” Ward murmured, shaking his head. “Guess you never know how much someone means to you until it’s almost too late…”

Phil’s breath caught in his chest as his throat tightened painfully. Ward was talking about himself, Phil knew that, but it still struck too close to home for himself, and he had to keep remembering that he had pushed Clint away for good cause. There was still no guarantee that the 187th wouldn’t be disbanded, even with Phil’s upcoming promotion. Phil had done what was best for both of them.

After a terrifying moment, Phil felt himself take a breath again and finally swallow past the lump in his throat. He nodded quietly while giving Ward’s shoulder a comforting squeeze. Still, it took a few seconds for him to trust his voice again.

“I’m sure Fitz is going to be fine,” Phil finally choked out, pausing to clear his throat and drop his hand off Ward’s shoulder. “Don’t worry, we’re going to take care of him. What I need from you now, is to eat and get some rest. And that’s an order.”

Ward nodded without looking up from staring at Fitz again, but did mumble a quiet, “Yes, sir” as Phil turned to start out the door again. Phil paused at the door to cast one last look back over his shoulder at the pair and for just a few seconds let himself wish things could be different. With a sad shake of his head, he turned and started off down the hall again. There was still plenty to do around the base, and Phil was expecting their replacement planes to come in at any time. He had to be ready for them, and for any missions command might pass down to them.

* * *

 

By mid-month a cold chill had settled over the base and into everyone’s bones. Though the leaves on the trees had turned the most beautiful fall colors, it wasn’t enough to banish the dreary grey skies and moods of the 187th. The majority of their base had been put back together again, but even that only helped lift the men’s moods and spirits by a fraction. Their promised replacement planes had been delayed a week so that available ferrying pilots could be found to bring them in, and then postponed another two days due to unfavorable weather conditions. Then, when the planes finally did arrive, they came with only a small handful of soldiers to help fill the gaps left by the ones who’d been killed by Rumlow’s destruction.

The weather wasn’t the only thing causing a chill to the air, though. At least, not as far as Clint was concerned. Things between himself and Coulson had become downright frigid. Coulson couldn’t -- or more likely just flat out _wouldn’t_ \-- meet Clint’s eyes if they happened to be in the same place at the same time, and on the very rare occasions they actually spoke to each other, their tones were short and sharp, and the conversations usually ended in tense bickering. If there was ever any question as to if whether Clint and Phil had been anything more than friends, there wasn’t anymore. Everyone on base could see the difference in both of them; they weren’t exactly subtle.

Changes were happening all around the base: the seasons, personnel, even relationships between those who were left. Clint was pretty sure he didn’t like any of it. Word had come through that, effective immediately, the 187th was to become a designated fighter squadron. The bomber planes were being relocated to a bomber group closer to London, which meant their pilots and crews were going, too.

Clint stood on the flightline watching as the crews tossed their belongings into the few bombers the 187th had and readied for take off. There was only one bomber left: _The Winter Soldier_. It had been Steve and Bucky’s bomber, now it was just Steve’s. The crew was already loaded up inside, ready to go, while Steve wandered around the outside to do final check. With Lucky trotting along beside him, Clint made his way to the bomber for one last goodbye.

Who knew if he’d ever see his friends again or not?

Steve made his way back to the front of the bomber and paused in front of Clint. For a minute, they simply stood there staring at each other silently. Lucky whined pathetically at Clint’s side before moving to nudge his cold nose against Steve’s hand for scratches.

“So, guess you’re headin’ out then?” Clint didn’t need to ask, but really, what did you say to a guy whose best friend had his arm taken off and, instead of being able to go back to the states to help with Bucky’s recovery, was being sent away from his little found family?

Not taking his eyes off Lucky, Steve nodded. “Yeah. Being sent to a new squadron feels more like a punishment than anything else.”

Clint could relate to that. The memories of being shuffled around because no one knew what to do with him, or how to handle him, were still so fresh in his mind that he would have nightmares because of it. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he could even hear Coulson finally giving him the boot.

“Yeah, I know how you feel,” Clint mumbled and nodded, turning to glance towards the rear of the plane before looking back to Steve. “Hey, look on the bright side though, it’s a real bomber group. And maybe we’ll get lucky enough to run escort for ya’s one of these days before the war’s over. Ya know?”

Steve cracked a small smile and finally lifted his eyes to meet Clint’s. The guy was still just as gorgeous as he was the first time Clint saw him, just a bit more jagged, sadder. War was starting to take its toll on him. “Yeah, maybe. That’d be great.”

Pressing his lips together, Clint nodded and stood beside the large propeller awkwardly. He’d never been very good at goodbyes, which was probably why he always just left without giving one. Clint had just opened his mouth to say he would let Steve get going, when Steve gave Lucky one last scritch behind the ear and moved to slip past Clint.

“Take care of yourself, Clint,” Steve said quietly with a small nod.

Clint turned, his hands shoved in his pockets as he watched Steve pull the hatch just below the nose of the plane and put his hands on the ladder rungs. “Yeah. You too, Steve. You’ve got a guy waitin’ back home for you who’d probably come stormin’ back here to kick Hitler’s ass himself if anything happened to you.”

With his arms braced and ready to start pulling himself up into the bomber, Steve frowned and looked back to Clint. There was something in his bright blue eyes, sympathy maybe, that made Clint shift awkwardly in his spot.

“Clint,” Steve started, shaking his head, “I don’t know what was going on between you and Coulson, it’s none of my business, but whatever it was, it was good for both of you. And I just want you to know, that I hope things work out between you both.” He paused for a moment, lips pressed together and eyes distant before he quietly spoke again, “The only thing for certain in this war, is that nothing is for certain. You may think you have all the time in the world to try and make things right, but it could be all over for you tomorrow. Don’t let time slip away from you. You’ll only regret it, in the end.”

A lump formed in Clint’s throat. He knew Steve was right, of _course_ Steve was right, the guy was way too perceptive for his own good most days, but that didn’t mean Clint had to like what Steve said. Coulson was the one who broke things off, not Clint. So why should Clint have to be the one to try and patch things up between them? It was obvious Coulson didn’t want him anymore, that Clint was nothing more than an inconvenient problem in the Major’s eyes. Wasn’t that painful enough?

Without a word, Clint shook his head and stepped back a safe distance as Steve climbed into the bomber and called “Clear prop” out the cockpit window just as the engines whirred to life. Clint snapped off a salute to Steve before giving a small wave, watching as _The Winter Soldier_ bumped its way down the runway and took off into the sky. Even after she was in the air, Clint stood watching, his hands in his pockets, until the bomber was well out of sight.

Lucky whimpered softly at Clint’s feet, nudging his head against Clint’s legs for attention. Or maybe in an attempt to comfort Clint, who knew. Clint cast a glance down at Lucky and sighed. It seemed like even his own dog was pitying him.

A heavy huff rattled Clint’s chest as he shook his head, turning to start off across base again. Fine. He’d try to talk to Coulson, but he really doubted anything would come from it.

* * *

 

Phil stood in his office going over the last-minute details for the award ceremony the next day. There was still a lot that needed to be taken care of, and only a few scant hours to do it, which meant the last thing he needed was more distraction. Obviously _that_ meant that Clint Barton and his damned adorable dog just happened to come strolling into his office right that minute like they owned it.

For just the barest instant, Phil felt the tightness in his chest unclench and it became ten times easier to breathe. God how he missed Clint. In that moment he wanted nothing more than to toss down his paperwork, throw his arms around Clint’s shoulders and never ever let him go. Ever since their fight, Phil had been wishing he could take everything back, every hurtful word said out of fear and frustration; he wished he could make up the time they’d lost, but he couldn’t. There was no going back to change what was already done.

Shaking that thought from his mind, Phil quickly closed himself off again, needing to bring up the barrier to keep his emotions in check and to keep from giving in to the urge to pull Clint in for a tight, needy hug. Phil turned his attention back to the papers in hand while moving back around his desk to sit down, pretending he didn’t see Clint and Lucky come into the office.

He ignored Clint for as long as he could, a good forty-five seconds, before he finally dropped his pen and looked up to meet those gorgeous eyes that less than a month ago Phil was sure he could easily have drowned in. They were colder now, though, icy in a way Phil wasn’t sure they’d ever been before. Even Lucky was eyeing him like some kind of threat he didn’t quite know what to do with just yet. It was unnerving and not at all unwarranted.

“Something you need, Lieutenant Barton?” Phil didn’t know how he managed to get that question out without his voice trembling, but he did.

Clint visibly stiffened, his arms tucked behind his back in parade rest, but there was nothing at rest about him. His eyes were glaring a hole through the wall above Phil’s head and his jaw was clenched enough Phil was certain Clint could turn a small piece of coal into a diamond between his teeth. Everything screamed that Clint was about two seconds away from bolting out the door and never looking back.

“I was hoping we could talk for a minute, sir,” Clint answered. His voice was tight, like he was forcing himself to keep it professional. Phil could appreciate that.

“What about?”

Clint blinked once straight ahead of him before darting his gaze down to meet and hold Phil’s. “Us.”

Breath caught in Phil’s chest while his mouth went dry. How could one simple, little word instill more terror in him than facing down an entire squadron of 109s? Maybe because deep down, Phil knew the worst a 109 would do to him was kill him quickly, put him out of his misery in an instant, one way or another. Clint wanting to talk about the two of them would kill Phil in every slow, painful way imaginable. Especially when his resolve still stood. There couldn’t be a Them.

He swallowed harshly past the lump in his throat before shaking his head. Quickly looking back to his desk, Phil grabbed his pen up again and continued writing. “There’s nothing to discuss, Lieutenant. Please see yourself out.”

“Oh, I think there’s a shitload that needs to be discussed, _Major_ ,” Clint snarled. “I think you’re just too chickenshit to talk about it.”

“Lieutenant,” Phil dropped his pen once more, this time a bit more forcefully than necessary. “I believe I made myself quite clear the last time we spoke.”

“Yeah, well, I was kind of hoping we could talk about last time and be grown men about it.”

Phil frowned, pushed himself up from his desk and moved to pour himself a drink. He needed all the liquid courage he could get to shove Clint away this time. “There’s nothing more to discuss about the matter, Lieutenant. Now, you’re dismissed,” Phil turned, hoping his shaking hand wasn’t too noticeable. “I have a lot I need to get finished before tomorrow. And I’m sure there’s at least one plane lying around somewhere for you to steal for a joy ride.”

The words in all their bite were out before Phil could stop them. Still, it was for the best to keep the act up. War was not the place to be making damned fool promises to each other, not when the outcome was so uncertain. Phil had to keep pretending, he had to keep Clint at a safe distance now, before anyone else got hurt because they were too busy off in the woods playing house. 

God, Phil was such an idiot. Such a complete and utter fool for hurting Clint as badly as he had! Phil knew, though, that the award ceremony wasn’t just to present a few good men with well-deserved medals; it was to see just what kind of state their base was in, and to determine if it was even worth it to keep putting money towards their rebuilding efforts, or just shut them down completely and ship everyone off to different corners of the world to keep fighting. Maybe if things turned out okay after the ceremony, then maybe Phil and Clint could talk? Maybe Phil would be able to explain himself and apologize and try to make Clint see that Phil hadn’t just been being cruel for the sake of it, or because he didn’t actually care anymore.

This time when Clint stormed out of Phil’s office, it was without a word or even a second glance. Clint just squared his shoulders, did a complete about face, and marched -- literally _marched_ \-- out of the room. Phil swallowed hard as he watched Clint leave, his heart breaking into even smaller pieces.

 _I’m sorry, Clint_ … Phil thought to himself, sadly. _I’m so sorry_ …

* * *

 

“As I stand here, looking out among the damage that has been brought to this base, I see the faces of bright young men. Young men with courage and steel shining strong in their eyes.”

Phil fought back the urge to roll his own eyes as the old General went on and on with his false praises of Phil’s men. The speech was so stagnant that Phil was pretty sure the General had just tweaked an older one enough to fit his purposes. Still, he stood tall, like a good soldier should, staring straight out ahead of him and ignoring the need to look off down the line to where Clint was standing.

It surprised the hell out of Phil to see both Clint and Tony in their full dress uniform. The dark tunic sashed around the middle properly and slacks freshly pressed. Tony had even shaved for the occasion, which was disorienting all on its own. They both looked good, but Clint looked especially good. The uniform just looked so right on him. And Phil was forever thankful that Clint and Tony were at least behaving themselves while the General droned on.

“...Which is why it is my great pleasure, and with great pride, to present this fine squadron with a distinguished unit citation for bravery under extreme adversity,” General Moore announced with a proud smirk and head nod.

Phil blinked twice and shook his head slightly to bring his thoughts back around to the ceremony, and not about Clint. Finally, the General’s aide snapped to attention behind him and called for Phil’s men to do the same as General Moore moved down the line to pin the small bar onto each man’s dress tunic. Phil kept his eyes forward and simply listened as General Moore thanked each man for their good work and moved on to the next. Down the row he went until he finally reached Clint, with Lucky in tow right beside him. Even Lucky was washed up and wearing a small dark brown tunic that Wade had made up for him.

It brought a small smile to Phil’s face as General Moore looked down at Lucky and paused. The golden mutt had become somewhat of the camp hero after the explosion when he was able to quickly and safely locate survivors, and then, later, recover bodies from the debris. Even if Moore didn’t award him with anything, Phil would have all on his own.

“For your bravery, and your quick and efficient work in assisting with the recovery of wounded, I am pleased to promote you, Lucky, to that of Sergeant. Thank you.”

Lucky barked twice and panted happily, his tail going a mile a minute as the men around him cheered and clapped. General Moore smiled fondly and reached to scritch behind Lucky’s ears before he continued on, pausing to give Tony an extra special thanks. Had Tony not been there when he was, the damage done by Rumlow could have potentially been far worse.

When General Moore finally came to a stop in front of Phil, Phil was only vaguely aware of what Moore was saying. The feeling of being intensely watched was making the hair stand up on the back of his neck so much that he almost forgot to thank the General when he was given his promotion to Lieutenant Colonel. The promotion wasn’t a total guarantee that the squadron would be kept together, of course, but Phil thought it was at least a sign that it was possible. He was a higher-ranking senior officer now, which meant he didn’t have to worry about being bumped down in his command any time soon, so there really wasn’t much reason to disband them.

Still, even with all the work they had been doing to rebuild the base and make sure all the planes were in proper working order, Phil wouldn’t know for certain the fate of his beloved squadron until after their next mission. It would be their first mission up with the new planes and new pilots, and without needing to run escort for the bombers. Phil was determined to make sure the mission, whatever it might be, went off without a hitch.

At last, General Moore finished handing out the awards. He took a step back, hands clasped behind him as he gave a nod to Ward standing just to Phil’s right. Ward nodded sharply in return before giving the signal for the men to salute and then to be dismissed. There was a moment of controlled chaos as everyone turned to leave and a number of men came up to congratulate Phil on his promotion, and in that hustle, Phil lost sight of Clint and Lucky. That was more than a little disappointing.

Phil’s disappointment was short-lived once General Moore put a beefy hand on his shoulder and drew his attention back around. Phil was quick to bring up one of his patented polite-yet-bland smiles to cover his true feelings as he was led off towards their rebuilt briefing hut.

“You boys have been doing a fine job here, Coulson. A fine job,” General Moore said with a nod.

Phil returned the nod with one of his own. “Thank you, General. We certainly try our hardest with what we have.”

“That much is clear,” the General agreed and stepped into the hut, his aide following behind them, and Ward following after him. “Which is why I wanted to discuss with you personally the next mission HQ would like for you boys to be a part of.”

“Of course, sir,” Phil nodded again and came to a stop near their planning board. The map of Europe was brand new, with new little markers to tick off where they had already completed successful missions. Alongside it, a flat piece of hardwood plank lay inscribed with the names, ranks, date of birth and date of death of each pilot they had lost in their few years as a unit. Phil’s chest tightened whenever he saw it before, but now, having been freshly redone and with new names added to the list, it hit him even harder.

The General wasn’t even the slightest bit fazed by the memorial wall that had been set up. He instantly, instead, jumped right into business. “As you know, there are major changes happening in this war. Good changes. The President thinks, and those of us in higher command positions agree, that this war is nearly won. It won’t be long now, and we’ll have Hitler on the run. You mark my word.”

Phil was doubtful of that, but kept his thoughts to himself and instead nodded along like a good soldier while the General continued talking.

“That is exactly why we feel now is the time to put our fighters to damn good use.”

Blinking and head tilted slightly to the side, Phil met General Moore’s gaze in confusion. “Sir? I don’t think I understand.”

General Moore turned and pointed to the map on the wall. “Winter is going to be here soon, which means most of our landmarks are going to be covered in snow. It’s HQ’s hope that we can bomb the hell out of Nazi-occupied areas before the snow arrives. In order to do that, we need to make sure our bombers can get through without much, if any, resistance. _That_ is where our fighters come in.” Moore turned his attention back to Phil and smiled excitedly. “Where once you flew alongside the bombers, only engaging in a dogfight if and when you were approached by enemy fighters, we’re going to be sending you boys _ahead_ of the bombers to sweep up the trash before it even has a chance to get near the bombers.”

A cold lump of dread settled in the pit of Phil’s stomach. It was risky enough to fly along with the bombers running escort and relay, but this just sounded like _suicide_! “You… want us to fly _ahead_ of the bombers?”

“That’s right.” General Moore practically preened with pride at the idea. Like it was the best idea in the world. “We want you boys to be put to your full potential! With your boys flying alongside some of our best fighter units in the Western theater, you should have no problems clearing the skies of those Jerry bastards before they can even sneak one fighter back towards our bombers.”

“Sir,” Ward stepped forward, his dark eyebrows scrunched together in deep thought as he shook his head. “Isn’t that unnecessarily risky for the fighter pilots? As it is right now, we have a decent record of keeping the bombers we’re assigned to from any excessive damages, but the fighter planes themselves are often shot down or torn to shreds.”

General Moore turned his dark eyes on Ward and frowned. His earlier excitement at the plan faded to a mild look of annoyance. How dare Ward even think of bringing up the fatal flaw Phil knew better than to point out.

“Son, we’re trying to win a war here, in case you haven’t noticed. You can’t win wars by hiding in the back, playing it safe. If you want to do that, we’ll send you back on home to your momma where you can hide behind her aprons.”

Ward’s stance stiffened at that and his jaw clenched like he wanted to snark something back at the General, but ultimately knew better. He stood quietly next to the wall of fame, hands balled into fists at his side, but didn’t argue again as General Moore kept talking.

“By sending the P-51s in beforehand to make sure the bombers have a clear path to their targets, we increase our chances of having successful missions by ninety percent. Fewer bombs would be lost, and fewer bomber planes would be taken out of commission. This is the way it’s going to be from here on out.”

As much as Phil hated the thought, he knew that Moore was right. It would give the bombers a better chance at hitting their targets, and with any luck, it might even help shorten the war. Taking a breath, Phil put a hand on Ward’s shoulder and gave it a gentle squeeze. There was no use in fighting it.

With a nod, Phil turned his head back to General Moore. “We’ll do our best to not let you down, General. When’s our first mission?”

And just like that, the light was back in Moore’s eyes and the smile once again on his face. “Good. Very good. That’s what I like to hear.” Moore grinned brighter as he reached out to smack Phil on the back, sending him swaying forward and dangerously close to making him lose his balance. “Your first mission is Monday morning. That gives you the rest of today and all of tomorrow to brief your men and prepare them for action.”

Phil fought back a frown, but nodded. That wasn’t a lot of time, but they’d pulled missions together on shorter notice than that and been just fine. With his mind already kicking into high-gear mission mode, Phil brought everyone’s attention back to the planning board to talk out strategy and flight path with Ward, while gathering whatever information the General had to offer.

  



	17. Chapter 17

 

Clint stood in the middle of the runway, staring off at the line of planes shrouded in the mist of the late October night. Clouds blocked out the stars above, and even the moon had turned its back on them, leaving nothing but a pitch-black void above his head. The only light was coming from the lamps scattered across the base, but with their pale glow a feeling of unease had settled into Clint’s stomach. The base made a haunting image, and Clint couldn’t get over how much all the planes standing on the grass looked like silent ghosts. It made the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end, and while he wasn’t really a superstitious person, he couldn’t shake the feeling that something was going to go wrong soon.

There was a quiet crunch of boots behind him, making him glance over his shoulder to watch as Tony came to stand alongside him. In the weeks since the explosion, Tony had come to find falling asleep was even harder than it’d been before, and there were a number of times since he’d gotten back to the barracks that Clint had woken up in the middle of the night to find Tony’s bed empty. Clint could relate to that. It was getting harder for him to stay asleep at night, too.

“I know it’s just mist,” Tony admitted, dark eyes glued on the planes ahead of them, “but it still looks like smoking debris to me.”

Nodding silently, Clint looked back out in front of him and sighed. Ghost planes, smoking debris, pretty much the same thing.

“Couldn’t sleep?” asked Clint, quietly pulling a beat-up package of cigarettes out of his jacket pocket. There was only one left in the pack, which was fine; he and Tony generally shared just one between them anyway. He put it to his lips at the same time as Tony struck a match and held it out for him to lean in and light it up. The tip glowed a bright red as the scent of burning paper and nicotine wafted up between them while Clint took the first drag and handed it off to Tony.

Cigarette held between his lip, Tony shook his head as he dropped the smoldering matchstick to the wet grass and rubbed it out with the heel of his boot. “Nah,” he whispered, barely loud enough for Clint to hear him.

Clint nodded again, waiting for his turn with the cigarette. “Yeah, me neither.”

“Yeah, but you’ve gotta be at least somewhat coherent later for briefing and the mission tomorrow, I don’t.” Tony quipped as he blew his smoke up into the breeze and watched as it twisted and twirled before blending into the mist around them.

“I know,” Clint mumbled, “I just needed to get out and get some air, ya know?”

Tony hummed in acknowledgement, but didn’t say anything else as he took another drag from the cigarette and passed it back to Clint. They stood silent for a long while, just watching the mist roll across the base and wrap possessively around the wings of the planes. It was a mostly comfortable quiet, marred only by the uneasy tension that had settled across the base.

Finally though, Tony broke the spell by asking, “You ever gonna tell me what happened between you and Coulson after Rumlow blew himself to Hell?”

Clint sighed heavily and dropped the last little bit of their cigarette to the ground to stomp out. He really didn’t want to, but Tony was his best friend. “What’s there to tell? He said I was a distraction and a mistake that he wasn’t going to make again, and that’s that.”

The weight of Tony’s stare was practically enough for Clint to feel boring through him. He turned his head just enough to see Tony’s face and frowned, his forehead furrowing in confusion. “What?”

“When the Hell did he say _that_?” Tony demanded, his arms folded over his chest and his eyes narrowed.

“A day or two after the explosion,” answered Clint with a shrug. “I went into his office just to try and see him, and he went off on me.”

For a moment, Tony just stared. It was enough to make Clint shift uneasily and debate taking a few steps back.

“Did you at least try to fight him on that? Get him to see you guys weren’t a mistake?”

Clint’s frown deepened. “No,” he answered back, shaking his head with a scowl. “I know when the fuck I’m not wanted, okay? I got the hell out of there.”

Beside him, Tony shook his head and grumbled under his breath, “Jesus Christ, and I thought _my_ childhood fucked me up emotionally.” Sighing heavily, Tony met Clint’s stare head-on and frowned right back at him. “Clint, the guy’s base had just been blown sky-high. People say stupid shit when they’re stressed out. They lash out at the people closest to them and try to push people away. When Bruce found out the reason Rumlow had blown everything up -- and had tried to take me with him -- you know what Bruce did?”

Lips pressed to a tight line, Clint shook his head silently as Tony continued talking.

“He tried to break things off with me. Told me we weren’t such a good idea, that us being together was only going to get more people hurt, that he would go to Coulson and ask to be reassigned to a different base so that way no one else could try to hurt me or him or anyone else, all because of the fact we’re queer.”

Clint stood dumbfounded for a moment, just blinking at what Tony had said. In a way, that didn’t surprise him at all, Bruce had a childhood pretty similar to Clint’s in that their fathers’ favorite past times involved beating on their terrified family, so both Bruce and Clint had learned young to hide and just try to make everyone happy so as not to attract attention to themselves. Still, it was obvious that Bruce was head-over-heels for Tony, so it hurt Clint to hear that Bruce had wanted to sacrifice his own happiness just to keep everyone else happy.

“But...you guys are still together,” Clint said, eyebrows knitted together in confusion.

Tony snorted and nodded once to make a point. “You’re damn right we are. Because I put up a fight and wouldn’t let him give up on the best thing to happen to either of us.”

Shaking his head, Clint looked away, turning his eyes back to the line of planes. “He’s already pushed me away a few times, Tony,” He paused, glancing back at Tony with a frown. “I don’t think I could handle it if he did it again. I mean, I went into his office the day before his promotion to try and talk to him about us, he wouldn’t even give me the time of day. Said he was far too busy and didn’t I have a plane to go steal or something?”

“You have the worst timing I have ever seen, you know that?” Tony sighed, shaking his head. “Look, tomorrow after the mission, you corner him. Corner him and don’t let him go until he’s agreed to talk and then you fight to keep him. I saw you two together, you guys weren’t some mistake. You two were fucking _good_ together. And if you wanna keep him, then you need to fight for it.”

Clint drew in a deep breath, the chilly night air filling his lungs and settling a frozen weight in his chest. He wanted to go to Coulson right then and there and try, but it was late, far too late to go barging in and demanding Coulson listen to him and that they try to talk things out like adults. Still, maybe Tony was right. If he waited until after the mission, then there was a better chance Coulson couldn’t evade him or push him away by claiming to be too busy to talk.

Letting the breath he’d been holding out in one great puff, Clint nodded slowly. He’d talk to Coulson after the mission. They’d get themselves worked out and Clint would fight to keep them together. He had to.

Tony scuffed the ground with the toe of his boot before turning with his hands in his pockets. “C’mon, Francine,” he teased, calling Clint by the obscure nickname Tony had given him when they first met, “Cameron’s got night duty in the tower tonight. Let’s go short sheet his bed and try to get some shut-eye.”

Clint laughed softly and turned to follow. He glanced back at the planes one last time, frowning slightly to himself as his and Coulson’s planes were completely engulfed in fog. The weight in his chest grew heavier as his stomach twisted and churned. The uneasy feeling was still there, still eating away at him, but at least he finally had a plan of action. Now it was just time to wait.

* * *

 

Clint’s stomach churned and tightened painfully all through the morning briefing. He’d barely gotten any sleep, and what little he did get had been filled with horrible dreams. The sounds of bullets shooting out of wing guns and pinging off his plane. The smell of burning fuel lingered in his nose even though it had all just been a dream. Horrible, terrible, no-good dreams.

Somehow he’d managed to pay attention to Coulson’s instructions and even scribbled down some quick notes in his little notepad. Clint was willing to do whatever it took to make sure he didn’t fuck something up on this mission. It had to go well, or else Coulson really wouldn’t want to talk to him afterwards.

As the briefing drew to an end, Clint looked up to find Coulson quietly glancing around the room. There was a strange pinched expression to Coulson’s face and Clint wished he could brush his thumbs across the creases to smooth them down again. Just one last time, just to look into Coulson’s eyes and see a smile there just for him. Instead, all he saw was the fear Coulson was trying to hide.

“This is an important mission,” Coulson cautioned, “I’m sure I don’t have to tell you that it’s also going to be extremely dangerous. This is the first time we’re being taken from a defensive position and put into an offensive one. I don’t want anyone messing around and trying to be a hot shot. No one here has anything to prove.” For a brief moment, his eyes finally landed on Clint before they darted away again. “You’re all damn good pilots, and it has been a privilege serving with each of you. Now, let’s get to our planes. We’ve got work to do. Dismissed.”

Clint folded his notepad over and stuffed it back into the breast pocket of his flight suit. Quick as he could, he pulled his leather jacket on and zipped it up tight on his way out the door. There wasn’t much time to talk to anyone as the pilots all hurried to their planes, but Clint still called ‘good luck’ and ‘see ya’s on the ground’ to Banner and Rand as he moved past them. Twenty-four Mustangs were going up in three groups of eight; Coulson’s group taking the lead, the other two following behind by only a minute or two.

Even once the groups were in the air, Clint was on his best behavior. No joking around, no singing, nothing. Just his ever-watchful eyes scanning the sky around them, and his mind focused on the mission, on keeping Coulson in-sight and safe. That was his number one priority, keeping Coulson safe. It shouldn’t be, but it was.

No one had ordered complete radio silence, but that didn’t keep the oppressive silence from settling over the comms. It seemed no one was in the mood to be a smartass. Clint wasn’t so sure that was a good thing. The silence meant there was nothing to distract him and occupy his overactive brain, which meant it kept wandering back to thoughts of Coulson. At least thinking about his smile and his eyes that always held a bit of mischief in them was enough to keep Clint from going too mad from silence for the flight.

He listened as Coulson passed on information to the bomber groups still on the ground, keeping them up-to-date on where the P-51s were located and how long before the bombers should be safe to follow behind them. Below them, the frigid Channel churned an angry dark blue as they crossed from England into the northeastern most part of France. From there it would be nothing but a hop over Belgium into Germany, clear the skies for the bombers, keep them covered while they dropped their payloads, and take them back home again.

As France came into view though, the plans changed.

“We’ve got some major fog here, boys,” Coulson broke in, shattering the silence. “Let’s take it up a bit higher, use the clouds for coverage. Keep this heading, and keep your eyes on your compasses. I don’t want anyone getting lost along the way.”

A chorus of affirmatives came back in answer as each plane followed Coulson’s up into the clouds, flying just close enough to keep each other in sight, but not close enough to accidentally run into each other. Clint was never one for flying in the clouds, he hated not being able to see what was coming at him. He swallowed hard around the lump in his throat and blinked quickly, his eyes already starting to burn at the strain of trying to see through the white screen of nothingness around them. He could just barely make out the silhouette of Coulson’s tail wing, but only just.

The cold weight clenched tighter in Clint’s stomach. Something definitely didn’t feel right. Taking a breath, Clint cleared his throat softly. “Sir?” he called through the radio. “We’re going to be sitting ducks if we stay in these clouds. No offense, Colonel, but couldn’t we take it up a little higher? Get above the clouds so we can actually see if there's anything coming at us?”

“Negative Lieutenant,” Coulson answered. He didn’t sound pissed off, so that was a plus, but he also didn’t sound at all receptive of the idea, either. “Maintain your positions. If I catch anyone going above the clouds, I’ll make sure you’re peeling potatoes for Sergeant Wilson for the rest of the war. Understood?”

Clint clenched his jaw and flexed his hand around his controls. “Yeah, but sir, if we can’t see shit, how do we know if--”

“I gave an order, Barton. If you’re going to argue with me about it, then you can turn your plane around and head back to base so I can deal with your insubordination when I get back.”

Okay, so apparently Coulson was still trying to be a jackass and was pushing Clint away. He had to bite back his own curt response, grounding out, “Understood, _sir_ ,” instead.

The silence wrapped around them again, thick as the cloud coverage, just as the clouds broke and Clint let out a string of curses at the bright sunlight suddenly blinding him for a moment. But a moment was all it took for a 109 to go screaming by just above his head.

Before Clint could even blink the sunspots out of his eyes, the fight was on. The radio was a cacophony of screams and voices yelling for people to look out; that there were Krauts on their tails. It was a sensory overload that left Clint wide-open for a split-second while he tried to get his bearings. Coulson wasn’t ahead of him anymore, and he was pretty sure the new kid who’d been flying on his left had just been blown to literal pieces.

The flashes of gunfire were going off in every direction and Clint quickly pulled his plane straight up, a 109 hot on his tail. Out of the corner of his eyes Clint could see the trails left by the bullets flying right past his cockpit window. He pushed the plane up higher, higher, quietly begging the 109 to follow him to stalling altitude. Behind him, the 109 broke away, heading off to find a target that wasn’t so much work, and that’s when Clint brought his own plane into a loop. The g-forces made it hard to keep control as his body was pressed back hard into the seat, but he managed and was able to bring himself right up behind the 109. All it took was a couple of well-aimed, quick bursts of his wing guns and the Kraut was nothing but a fireball for Clint to fly through.

For just a split second, Clint was able to see the entire fight. A whole squadron of 109s doing a deadly dance in the sky against the fighters of the 187th. It was almost beautiful the way all of the planes moved around each other, wrapping up in the trails left by the bullets and chasing one-another from one end of the sky to the other.

All around him planes were being blown apart, faster than Clint could keep track of. His heart was practically ready to beat out of his chest as he chased one Kraut off from Banner and sent the bastard spinning to the ground. Even in all the confusion, the only thing Clint could think about was Coulson. He had to find him. What kind of shit wingman was he that he couldn’t even keep track of one plane?

“Coulson!” Clint shouted, cursing quickly as he had to put his plane into a dive in order to avoid running head-on with one of his own. “Coulson!?”

“Barton! Where the hell are you!?” Coulson’s voice was strained and scratchy over the static of the radios, but it was enough to let Clint breathe a small sigh of relief. Coulson was still alive. He was still fighting. It was just a matter of finding him, now.

“Where the hell am _I_? Where the hell are _you_!?” Clint exclaimed. He had to fight to keep the relieved laughter out of his voice as he brought his plane around again, chasing a 109 off its path but leaving it for someone else to deal with. “I swear, Coulson! I blink my eyes for two seconds and you’re gone with the wind! Gonna put a fucking bell around your neck and name you Miss Scarlet!”

“Barton if you don’t shut up and get your ass over here and get this damn Kraut off my tail, I’m gonna--”

“Alright! Alright! Don’t get your silver leaves in a bunch. I’m coming up behind you, I’ve got the bastard in my sight,” Clint huffed.

He brought his plane right up behind the 109, lined up his shot, and just as he was getting ready to squeeze the trigger, the explosive noise of wing guns firing sounded ahead of him, followed almost instantly by a startled grunt of pain. Clint’s eyes went wide when he realized what had happened, and without a second thought, opened fire on the 109. He watched as his bullets tore through the Kraut’s wings until the left one snapped like a twig and sent the plane hurtling to the side and rolling towards the ground.

Clint’s heart was in his throat as he brought his plane around to fly side-by-side with Coulson, trying to check him for damages. “Coulson! Coulson, are you alright?”

Panic rose up in Clint as he stared across the wings and into Coulson’s cockpit where Phil was sitting, his head lulled back and mouth slack. God, this couldn’t be happening. The plane was still flying straight, it was level, so Coulson had to be okay. He had to be.

“Coulson! Talk to me!”

It took a second, but Coulson’s head finally went upright again, and Clint watched as he brought a hand to his head just briefly.

“I’m fine,” Phil mumbled back, “I’m fine. Just nicked me. We’re good here.”

Clint let out a quick breath. Oh, how he wished that hadn’t been nearly so close of a call. He opened his mouth, ready to lay into Phil for nearly getting his plane blown up, when Phil turned his head to look back at him. For a moment, they just stared at each other across the wings, and Clint could feel the lump forming in his throat again. He’d nearly lost Phil. How could he get the words out, right there in the middle of a dog fight, that he was terrified?

“We’re fighting a losing battle here, Barton,” Phil confessed, never taking his eyes off Clint. “Let’s get these boys turned around and head ho--”

Phil’s words were suddenly drowned out as the sound of metal being torn to shreds filled the comm line. Clint’s heart stopped cold, watching as Phil’s body slumped forward and his plane went into a sudden dive, the tail wing completely missing from the fuselage.

Clint pulled up hard, cursing frantically and begging any god who would listen, “No! Please, God! No! Coulson!”

He lost sight of Phil’s plane as it dove into the clouds. Desperate, Clint rolled his plane over to get above the 109 that had shot Phil before crossing to the other side and coming up under it instead, screaming as he let hell loose on the underside. The 109 exploded in a spectacular fireball just as Clint darted up through where its center had once been.

“Has anyone got eyes on Coulson?” He cried, silently begging the powers that be that Phil was alright. “Coulson!?”

“Clint…” Phil’s voice was suddenly there, barely coming through Clint’s headset.

“Phil! You gotta bail out! Bail out and pull your chute!” begged Clint, and Hell, he didn’t even care that he was begging.

There was a wet cough across the line before Phil answered, “Clint...get the boys...home safe...please. Just...get...get yourselves home.”

Clint yanked at his goggles that were suddenly fogged with tears and threw them against his control panel. He sent his plane into a dive, down into the clouds below him that Coulson had disappeared into just seconds before.

“Phil, bail out! You can still roll your plane over to bail out! You gotta bail and pull your chute! You gotta! Phil! _Phil_!?”

Only the sound of the pilots who were left came back through the line. Bile filled Clint’s throat and he blinked back tears as he pushed his plane faster, faster, lower through the clouds, only just able to pull up in time to miss the tall trees that peeked through the fog. Just in time to see the bright orange ball of flames engulf one of the trees as the plane went nose-first into the ground.

Clint didn’t know he was screaming until he couldn’t breathe anymore. When his throat felt like it had been rubbed raw with sandpaper and his lungs burned in his chest; only then did he realize he’d been screaming. He couldn’t tear his eyes away from the mangled wreckage down below him, the flames licking up the bare tree and reaching up towards him. For a second, he considered letting them get him. Or better yet, just diving his plane right down next to Phil’s.

He couldn’t though. Phil’s last words to him were to tell him to get their boys back to base. Clint had been a disappointment enough in his life, and had gone against Phil’s orders too many times, he couldn’t let Phil down this time. No matter how badly his heart ached, telling him to just do it. He couldn’t.

“Clint! Clint, the Krauts are breaking off!” Danny Rand called, yanking Clint from his thoughts. “Hawkeye? Do you copy?”

It hurt to breathe, let alone speak, but Clint cleared his throat and forced himself to turn his back on Phil’s burning plane. On _Phil_.

“Yeah,” rasped Clint, tilting his nose up and heading back into the clouds to join the others. “Yeah, I copy. Banner, get hold of the bomber group, let ‘em know…” Clint trailed off, staring unblinkingly ahead of him as his entire body, his entire soul, went numb. “Let ‘em know...that we couldn’t clear the sky. We’re all beat up, and we’ve lost men.”

There was a quiet pause. Clint swallowed thickly, cringing in pain at how sore his throat felt. A moment later, he cleared the clouds, coming up alongside one of the new kids. Clint barely even batted an eye as the trail of cloud followed behind him for a second until he leveled himself out and flew above the others.

“...Let the group know we’re heading home,” Clint murmured, barely more than a whisper as he shook his head and just kept staring straight ahead of him. “It’s a wash. Just...let’s just get home.”

No one argued with him, no one said a word. Of the twenty-four planes that went up, only thirteen would make it back to base. Six of those thirteen, free of damage. Clint’s plane included. And wasn’t that enough to add insult to injury? Someway, somehow, Clint’s plane didn’t have so much as a new dent anywhere on it. He would get to walk away once they landed back at their airfield, while eleven men -- eleven _friends_ \-- would never see their bunks again.

Clint waited until he was on solid ground again to throw up. To cry, and scream. To break down alone in Phil’s quarters, a crumbled heap in the middle of the floor after turning the room into a complete disaster zone. He never even noticed when Tony came sliding into the room, Bruce right behind, though staying back to guard the door from curious gawkers. All he could do was cry, clinging to Tony’s shirt for all he was worth, until he just couldn’t cry anymore and he gave himself up to the endless darkness of exhaustion.

  



	18. Chapter 18

_ _

 

 _November 3rd, 1943_   
_England_   
_187th Fighter Squadron_

_Dear Mrs. Morse,_

_I know that Bobbi has already contacted you to make sure that my house is once again signed to my name, I appreciate that very much. With that said, I hope that you could do one last favor for me. I know we never saw eye-to-eye, and I know I failed your daughter in every possible way, but right now she and yourself are the only family I have left in the States, and I need your help._

_A military footlocker, along with a smaller box of possessions, is going to be delivered to your home hopefully soon after this letter reaches you. I know it’s asking a lot, but would you please make sure it is taken care of and put in my home, so that it’s there when I return? It is very important to me. The man it belonged to doesn’t have any family for his belongings to be returned to, so I’m taking them. He was our commanding officer, and my closest, dearest friend._

_Thank you again for everything._

_Forever grateful,_

_First Lieutenant Clinton F. Barton_

* * *

 

Clint stared around Phil’s empty barracks with a heavy heart. It still felt like a piece of him was missing, and would always be missing. Even after two weeks, he felt numb inside, distant. It was cliché as hell, but nothing felt the same now that Phil was gone. Colors looked duller, and it wasn’t just because winter was slowly creeping in on them, and even the joyful barks of happiness from Lucky as he played with the men around base sounded tinny in Clint’s ears.

The airfield was colder now. Clint wandered through it like a ghost on his best days, and stayed curled up on Phil’s empty bed on his worst. Except, now Phil’s room was cleared of all personal belongings. Clint had packed them away in boxes so that the random ground crews assigned to shipping dead airmen’s belongings home to their loved ones wouldn’t touch Phil’s things. Phil didn’t have any loved ones waiting at home for news about him, which meant God only knew what would happen to this things.

With a little help from Tony, Clint was able to send Phil’s things back to the States before the Army Air Force could get their hands on them. Clint would take care of everything. There were still a few important family photos that hadn’t gotten burned up in Rumlow’s explosion, and Phil’s uniform shirts still smelled like him -- Clint couldn’t let those things be destroyed or locked away in some storage locker somewhere.

Things were changing. Not everything for the better.

It had taken a few days for the news of Phil’s crash to reach the AAF Headquarters, but when it did, plans were instantly thrown into action. The war was beginning to turn, and with it meant new airfields were springing up closer to the battles. The 187th’s base was too far out to be of any use anymore, so one-by-one the men were being reassigned to new squadrons. Without a commanding officer there, one who fought tooth-and-nail to make sure his men were taken care of and that his squadron remained intact no matter what happened, there was no one there to keep the reassignments from happening.

After four years of successful missions, the 187th was no more.

Clint’s home, as he’d come to know it, was gone.

A quiet knock from the doorway drew Clint out of his pensive thoughts and he blinked past the tears in his eyes as he turned around. Tony was standing just inside the room, dressed in his full uniform, his duffel at his feet and a somber expression etched on his face.

“Hey. They’re loading up the last plane now,” Tony murmured, jerking his thumb over his shoulder with a shrug, “Said it’s time to get going.”

It was a struggle to swallow past the lump that had formed in Clint’s throat. Even though this wasn’t Phil’s real room, the one where he and Clint had shared so much time together and gotten to know each other better than anyone else, it was still Phil’s room. It still felt like Phil, and it was hard to have to leave it behind. Somehow, it was harder than turning his back on the burning wreckage.

Maybe somewhere in the back of his mind, Clint still felt like the wreckage hadn’t been real, that it had just been a horrible nightmare and that Phil was still alive and well and waiting for him. Having to turn his back on Phil’s room now, though, felt final. It meant Phil was gone, and Clint had lost the one good thing to have happened to him in so, so long.

With a deep, heavy sigh, Clint nodded. It was time to go, time to rebuild and move on to a new squadron and start over. Grabbing up his own bag, Clint shuffled out the door, not even blinking when Tony squeezed his shoulder on his way by.

“You know where you’re being sent to yet?” asked Clint once they were outside again.

Beside him, Tony shook his head and whistled for Lucky. “Not yet. Last I heard we were being sent back to the rotation pool until they figured out what to do with us.”

Clint nodded silently. He had hoped his days of being left in limbo were over. Apparently they weren’t.

“Get Bruce’s new squadron number, at least?”

“Oh, hell yes, I did,” Tony grinned that impish little grin of his. “He’s in Italy. Told him how to get hold of my mom’s grandparents and relatives that are still around over there. Planning to go see him soon as I can earn enough points for a pass.”

“Unless you’re sent back to the Pacific?” Clint teased, even though it hurt to try and sound so lighthearted.

Grinning brighter, Tony shrugged and put a little skip into his step. “They won’t send me back to the Pacific. I’ll make sure they send me somewhere in Italy or something. Grease the right palms and you’d be amazed what can happen.”

“Yeah,” murmured Clint absently. He tossed his bag up the short set of stairs leading up into the belly of the transport plane and stepped aside just long enough for Lucky to go scurrying up after the bag.

Clint stopped at the top of the steps and turned to look back across the empty base. The airfield was going to be turned back over to the Royal Air Force, and that damned Hunter would probably wander the grounds once the Americans were gone. For a brief moment, Clint saw the day he and Tony had first arrived, clear as day, playing out not far from where they were. Watching the scene take place with an outsider’s perspective, just like in the movies, he saw himself and Tony joking around, passing a cigarette back and forth between them as Ward and Phil came up to them.

With a howl of wind through the trees, the image was gone. Frowning, Clint ducked his head and slipped into the dark, crowded passenger area. He sat with Lucky and his bag at his feet, Tony to his left, and just leaned his head back against the cold metal behind him as the plane took to the sky.

* * *

 

Clint spent the rest of the war much in the same way he spent the start of it: bouncing from squadron to squadron without ever finding a place he could call his own. Though he was eventually promoted from a First Lieutenant to a Captain, nothing ever felt like home again, and he never developed the kind of relationships he’d had with the guys at the 187th anywhere else. Most of his commanding officers thought he was a hot-shot at best, suicidal at worst. He constantly pushed himself beyond his limits and would often request the missions that had a low survival rate.

Yet somehow through it all, he managed to survive.

He flew over France on D-Day, taking down as many Axis troops as he possibly could before being shot down. Aside from a few bumps and bruises, and a cut on his head, Clint had managed to survive and make it back to his group, eventually. By the end of the war, Clint had been transferred to a squadron in the Pacific -- though he never got a chance to fly with them. Instead, he and Lucky took care of the squadron’s Officer’s Club, and spent more time working on a tan than anything else.

Still, when all was said and done, Clint returned home to Waverly, Iowa a hometown hero. He didn’t know how anyone found out the exact date he was going to be home; he hadn’t told anyone except Bobbi in a letter, and he was willing to bet she didn’t still have any friends living in town to tell, and yet, he was met at the train station with a full marching band, streamers and cheers.

It seemed as if the whole town had come to meet him when he got off the train in September 1945. Even all the school kids were there with brightly-painted signs and songs, when, shouldn’t they have been in their classes learning arithmetic and spelling?

It was nice to be welcomed, and to have the town decked out like it was the 4th of July just for him -- odd, no doubt about that, but still nice; especially since when he went running (literally running) out of town, he was pretty sure no one would give two thoughts about him if anything were to happen to him.

Clint didn’t even have time to go home to change his clothes or get settled before he was pulled into the festivities of Waverly’s welcome home party for him. There was a parade through the center of town, where Clint stood on the back of Old Man Wessel’s pickup truck waving to people he hadn’t seen in years and up to the kids hanging out of their apartment windows above Main Street’s little shops. Confetti littered the ground even before Clint reached it, and when the procession -- led by the high school marching band -- finally came to a stop in the park by the school, a blue and yellow bi-plane flew overhead to pull tricks and draw excited cheers from the town people.

On the one hand, Clint was glad to be remembered, and to have the party to take his mind off of things. On the other hand, though, Clint’s mind really couldn’t be taken off of things. From the park he could just make out his grandparents’ farm house in the distance and his chest ached like an elephant was standing on it as he remembered the promise he and Phil had made to each other. There’d be no one waiting for him. Even if Phil hadn’t been killed, Clint was pretty certain they wouldn’t have reconciled. Phil had been very adamant that he couldn’t be bothered by Clint anymore, and Clint, well, Clint had been fully ready to sacrifice his own happiness to keep Phil happy.

It was well after dusk when old Mrs. Niedermeyer -- Clint’s former first grade teacher -- cornered him at the pie table with a bony finger and a stern glare. Honestly, Clint was surprised the old woman was still alive. He’d been pretty sure she was already 100 when Clint was six years old in her class, which meant she had to be closing in on Older Than Dirt territory soon. Maybe now he could ask her if she remembered Washington crossing the Delaware, and not have to worry about his father tanning his hide for getting in trouble at school. Again.

“Mrs. Niedermeyer, you’re looking swell for a wo--” Clint’s words were abruptly cut off as Mrs. Niedermeyer jabbed the tip of her gnarled old finger into the center of his chest.

“You better not be planning to toss that kind young man out of your grandfather’s house, now that you’re back,” she croaked, brown eyes narrowed into dark little slits. “Just because you’re back doesn’t mean you have any right to go tossing people out on their ear. He’s paying the bank rent, fair and square.”

Clint blinked in confusion. There was someone living in his house? That didn’t seem right, unless it was Bobbi’s brother staying there to keep an eye on it? That also didn’t seem right, her brother hated him more than her mother did.

“What man?” Clint finally asked, trying hard to put his thoughts back in order.

Mrs. Niedermeyer shook her head and frowned, grumbling incoherently under her breath before answering and waving her hand absently at him. “I don’t know what his name is. All I know is that he keeps that eyesore of a house from falling down, and he pays the bank rent to your account. Always in cash. That’s what Edna tells me.”

Edna. That could only mean Edna Minsk, which meant Clint had to take the story with a grain of salt. Edna was only the town’s biggest gossip. It had been said that she had been gossiping ever since the moment she was born, telling the doctor, “I don’t think my daddy is my daddy.” At least, that’s what Clint had heard. It was a small town, gossip was inevitable, but at the center of the rumor mill was Edna Minsk, every time.

Clint rolled his eyes and sighed, shoving another piece of pie into his mouth. That was one thing he’d missed the most while he was gone, homemade pies with just a little bit of vanilla ice cream scooped on the side.

“Well,” Clint swallowed his bite and cleared his throat softly, “Whoever the fella is, he’s gonna have to start looking for a new place. I’ll let him stay until he finds one, but, I’m really not interested in sharin’ my house with anybody.” _Not anymore_. He thought sadly to himself.

Legendary frown cutting a deep line across her face, Mrs. Niedermeyer shook her head at him before jabbing him hard in the chest again. “Your grandmother would be so disappointed in you. You and that trouble-maker brother of yours, always up to no good. Running through my garden like the Devil himself was chasing you both.”

Clint’s eyebrows scrunched together in a heavy furrow of confusion. He hadn’t seen Barney in ages, and last he had finally heard, Barney was MIA in France, somewhere. And the last time they’d run through any gardens together was when they were kids. Standing stock still, Clint watched as Mrs. Niedermeyer’s gaze went distant and unfocused, like she was staring through him instead of at him, seeing days long since passed.

It seemed a lot really had changed since Clint left: the town’s attitude towards him -- going from the stupid youngest son of the town drunkard, to the celebrated war hero; even Clint himself had changed.

Forcing a small, sad smile to his face, Clint bobbed his head up and down twice before looking properly chastised. “I’ll be sure to let him know, Mrs. Niedermeyer. I’m sorry if we caused any damages. Let me mow the lawn to try and make up for it?”

Mrs. Niedermeyer blinked and squinted up at Clint, analyzing him closely before frowning again. “You’re that Barton boy, aren’t you? You better not be planning to toss that nice young man that’s been staying in your grandparent’s home out on his ear!”

Heart dropping, Clint instantly regretted all the older-than-dirt jokes he’d made about his former teacher. In so many ways it broke Clint’s heart to see her like she was, with a memory all tangled up like a fistful of string, flittering from past to present and back again. Then again, in other ways, Clint almost envied her. There were so many moments in the past three years Clint wished he could forget, just skip over them and go on to something different, something better.

“No. Don’t worry. I won’t be kicking him out. He’s welcome to stay as long as he likes.” Clint amended his original response with one that he figured she would accept better. Even if it was a lie.

With only a sharp nod in reply, Mrs. Niedermeyer turned to shuffle off towards a group of younger kids, already forgetting Clint in the process. Standing next to the table of pies, Clint looked around at everyone laughing and talking, the kids running around playing tag, and realized it probably was pretty easy to forget about him. It seemed everyone already had. Now that he was back, the novelty of his coming home was gone, and everyone was just happy to be celebrating the end of the war again, it seemed.

Taking a deep breath, Clint felt himself long for a plane to escape into. He wished Tony, Bruce and the others were around for him to disappear into their folds and have familiar faces to talk to and joke with, maybe even plot some prank to pull. Coming back into the civilian world wasn’t what Clint had thought it would be. It felt foreign and strange, like all of the sudden he was an outsider looking in on a life he wasn’t sure he could ever be a part of again.

Maybe coming home was a bad idea. He had some money, not a whole lot, but enough to get him back to New York and he was pretty sure Tony would give him a job doing something. He could leave his grandparent’s farm to whoever was living there now -- if anyone really was. Who knew, now, with Mrs. Niedermeyer’s memory being what it was -- and just disappear. Though, if he was going to do that, he might as well take one last look around the place first. Just for old times’ sake.

* * *

 

The sun was hovering just over the horizon by the time Clint made it up to his old home. The walk from the park to the house was a little longer than Clint remembered it being, but it had been nice and relaxing. Especially with Lucky trotting along beside him, darting off into the ditch every once in a while to chase a rabbit before returning to Clint’s side.

When they came to the top of the hill, Clint paused to take a look around. It really was a beautiful old home, two stories, with a large white porch out front, and half-covered in creeping ivy that he’d have to take down at some point. And he was pretty sure the old bench swing would need replacing by now, if it hadn’t already fallen down. The white paint of the porch and around the windows was flaked and dingy, and it wasn’t quite obvious that the house itself had at one point been a beautiful light shade of green -- there was too much dirt covering it and the paint was quickly disappearing from the siding, too. In fact, the whole place was just in pretty bad need of a paint job, he’d have to work on that. But, at least it was still intact, and none of the windows seemed to be missing, so, there was that. And the lawn was mostly kept up, even if the shrubs were starting to get a bit out of hand.

Maybe Clint would stick around long enough to get the shrubs back under control, clear out the creeping ivy, and do up the repairs that needed to be done before he headed for New York. If he did up the repairs and repainted, he could maybe even just sell it to whoever was living there now, or something. After all, the house was pretty large just for him to be living in on his own. It had the white front porch facing the road, and a back porch just off the kitchen where Clint used to play the most as a toddler. There was a large bathroom upstairs, and a small washroom on the main floor. The stairs to the full basement were just inside the large eat-in kitchen, and another door connected the kitchen to the stairs going to the second floor, as well as the doorway to the living room. There were two decent-sized bedrooms on the main floor and a formal dining room that Clint had vague memories of being packed with family on holidays. And upstairs were four more fairly large bedrooms.

It was a house built for a family; a house that, once upon a time, Clint had figured he would raise one of his own in. But that dream shattered years ago. And then again on a cold October day in Europe not all that long ago.

Swallowing thickly, Clint whistled for Lucky, hoisted his duffel bag up on his shoulder again and turned to start walking around the back of the house. The stone path from the gravel driveway to the back porch door was in surprisingly good condition, and free of weeds, which Clint was pleased to see -- that meant one less thing for him to have to do. The back door was unlocked, and there was a faint glow of light coming from the kitchen. Apparently, someone was living there after all.

Clint quietly, cautiously, opened the door, kind of hesitant to just walk right on in, despite the fact it was _his_ house. That didn’t stop Lucky from barging on in and darting right past him though, barking excitedly and going straight for the kitchen with his tail going a mile a minute. There was a quiet murmur of a voice, barely audible under all of Lucky’s barking, and Clint couldn’t make out any words, but the tone definitely sounded amused and fond instead of startled like it probably should have been. Unless this guy was used to strange dogs just running into the house.

Leaving his bag on the sun porch, Clint took five steps forward, all he really needed to take in order to be in the doorway to the kitchen, and froze. Everything froze. His heart, his mind, time, the world. Everything. Everything was at a sudden standstill because of the ghost sitting at his kitchen table, smiling softly down at Lucky as he scratched behind the dog’s ears.

“Phil…?” Clint wasn’t sure if he’d whispered that out loud, or only in his head. Obviously he was cracking up. Shell shock. It had to be shell shock. The doctors at his last check-in before coming home had warned him something like this might happen. They’d said he might wind up seeing things, people, that weren’t really there.

At the table, Phil lifted his head and met Clint’s gaze. The soft smile was still there, though it was ruined by the hesitance clear in those haunting grey-blue eyes. Eyes that Clint only saw in his dreams now. Except… okay, maybe he was dreaming. Yeah, that was it. That had to be it. He was still back at his last squadron base, lying in his cot, sleeping and dreaming. This had been his dream, right? To find Phil waiting for him at home when he got back. That had to be it.

And then Phil had to go and open his damn mouth.

“You’re not dreaming, Clint.”

Clint grabbed hold of the doorframe in one hand, and the countertop in his other to keep from falling to his knees. He could feel the color draining from his face and his breath catching in his chest. The world suddenly tilted and before Clint could blink, Phil was in front of him -- solid, hard, warm -- holding on to him to keep him from dropping like a rock.

Not even in his dreams had Clint seen Phil dressed in anything other than his uniform or flight suit. And that, _that_ , was how Clint knew he wasn’t dreaming. Not because Phil had told him he wasn’t -- because that had happened plenty in dreams and it turned out he had been -- but because Phil was standing in his kitchen, in civvies. In fact, Clint was pretty sure that was one of his plaid shirts Phil had on and tucked into a pair of very worn out Levi’s. Which, Clint was pretty sure were also his, come to think of it.

“You’re dead…” Clint whimpered out. Clamping his eyes shut tight, he shook his head and tried to breathe as emotions went to war in his chest. “I saw you. I watched...I watched your plane hit the ground and explode. I…”

“Shhh,” Phil soothed, placing his hand gently on Clint’s cheek. Clint gasped at the touch, choking out a small sob at how real Phil felt, and how unreal everything else felt. “Shhhh, it’s okay, Clint. Breathe. It’s okay.”

“No!” Clint cried, stumbling backwards and out of Phil’s grasp, shaking his head frantically. “No! It’s not okay! I watched you _die_! You’re not here! I watched you--”

“You didn’t, Clint,” Phil cut Clint off quickly. “You didn’t watch me die because I didn’t die. My plane rolled over after I told you to get everyone home. I got the emergency release open on my canopy and bailed. Clint, please. Please believe me. You saw an empty plane explode. I’m here. I’m right here in front of you.”

For the second time since walking in the door, Clint felt his world come to a screeching halt.

“You...bailed?” he whispered, still not quite believing it.

Phil’s smile slowly started to reach his eyes as he touched Clint’s elbow again gently. “I bailed. I was still in the cloud when my plane hit the ground.” The corner of his mouth twitched into a real smile and his eyes sparked to life. “I could have reached out and touched your wing when you went shooting down to follow it, I was that close to you.”

Clint’s breath caught in his chest and this time, he grabbed Phil’s shoulders to keep from crumbling. “You bailed,” he murmured again, staring at Phil in just utter shock. “You bailed. You…”

Without a second thought, Clint threw his arms around Phil, holding him close and tight as he buried his face in the crook of Phil’s neck to breathe him in. He could feel himself shaking, so he just held Phil tighter, desperate to know that Phil was there and whole and real.

At least, until his brain caught up with what was happening and he drew back, leveling Phil with a hard stare. “Wait a minute. You’ve been _alive_ , this _entire time_ , and you let me just think you were _dead_?!”

Phil’s face twisted in a grimace as he took a few steps back and sighed. It was only then that Clint realized Phil had a limp that he’d never had before. He stood there watching Phil for a long, silent moment before Phil finally took a breath.

“I was in a hospital in France,” Phil started, his voice quiet and eyes focused on the floor. “When I was picked up by an Allied group, I was in pretty bad shape. I’d been dangling from my parachute for over a day. I had a concussion and some broken bones, and an extra hole or two in places. I had to stay in a hospital for well over a month. By the time I was finally well enough to write a letter, and ask to be returned to the 187th, they told me I was going home.”

Phil looked up, finally meeting Clint’s gaze and swallowed thickly. “And they told me the 187th had been disbanded. That you all had been reassigned to new squadrons. I got sent back here, spent some time in New York in rehabilitation, and I tried to get word to you. I just didn’t even know where to start looking. The military was too busy trying to keep track of everyone that,” pausing, Phil shook his head and glanced away, huffing softly, “they told me Sergeant C. Barton had gone missing in action just inside the French border.”

Clint stared for a moment, blinking, trying to take all the information in before, “But, I was a Lieutenant.”

Quirking an amused eyebrow, Phil cocked his head and smirked. “Not on any official records you weren’t. All my files on my pilots got destroyed when Rumlow blew up the control room. Last the military knew, you were a Sergeant. I figured I’d give them your official rank to look into, not the rank you won in a poker game.”

“All right, but,” Clint shook his head, still confused and frowned. Nothing was making sense and he didn’t even know if he should be pissed off Phil had been alive this whole time or not anymore! “But, C. Barton, that’s my brother. My _brother_ is the one MIA in France somewhere, not me.”

“You never told me your brother’s real name was Charles,” Phil folded his arms over his chest and tilted his head the other way. “They found the first Sergeant C. Barton from Waverly, Iowa they had on records, figured it was the one I was looking for, and I didn’t know any different. You’d only ever called him Barney.”

Phil paused again and dropped his arms, his amused smirk turning softer, sadder, as he stepped back into Clint’s space again to touch his hands. “I didn’t know where else to go, or what to do. I thought you were gone. So I came here. Like I told you I would if anything happened. And I found my footlocker you snuck over here somehow, I’m guessing Tony had something to do with that,”

Clint couldn’t keep back his small laugh as he nodded, reaching automatically to take hold of Phil’s hands and just cling to them again.

“Clint, I’ve been staying here believing you were MIA for over a year. It wasn’t until a couple weeks ago when word got out you were coming home that I found out your brother’s name was actually Charles, not Barney.”

Swallowing thickly past the lump in his throat, Clint took a deep breath and clutched Phil’s hands a bit tighter. “Why didn’t you come down to the station when I got in? Or to the party? Why’d you just stay here?”

Phil shrugged one shoulder and huffed, “Wouldn’t have been good for a decorated war hero to faint right there in front of the whole town cuz he thought he saw a ghost, would it?”

Laughing again, Clint felt his shoulders relax a bit and the knot that had been tied in his stomach for ages slowly start to unclench. It wouldn’t have looked good, Phil was right. God, what a pair they made, both spending so long figuring the other was gone for good. Clint leaned his head in, pressing their foreheads together as he just held on, even when Phil started talking again, Clint just held him close and kept their heads together.

“You were never a mistake, Clint,” Phil murmured, his breath warm and perfect against Clint’s lips. “You could never be a mistake. I’m so sorry I made you think you--”

Clint took a deep breath, the last bit of that knot untangling and smoothing itself out while his chest swelled in happiness as he leaned in, cutting Phil off with a deep, passionate kiss. Clint had had a lot of time to think about the night Phil pushed him away, and the scattered times after that, and after several talks with Tony, he’d come to at least somewhat understand why Phil had done it. He’d forgiven Phil ages ago, but it was nice to hear the apology, even as unnecessary as it was.

Pulling back only once the air had become too thin to breathe and his lungs were burning in his chest, Clint cupped Phil’s face in his hands and pressed their foreheads together once more. He opened his eyes and stared straight into Phil’s, marveling at the wetness he saw glittering against Phil’s lashes, and knew that unshed tears of his own were welling up in his eyes. Not time, nor distance, nor even old Adolf and his damned war could fade the love Clint had in his heart for Phil. He’d always been too afraid to say it back when he had a chance the first time, but he wasn’t going to miss his chance now. He loved Phil, and nothing was going to change that.

“Just shut up and tell me you love me, and you’re never going to push me away again,” Clint murmured, keeping his eyes locked to Phil’s.

There was barely even a pause before Phil tightened his hold on Clint’s hips and pulled their bodies flush together. When he spoke, his voice was low and soft and full of promises, “I love you, and I’m never going to push you away again. Ever.”

Clint let out a breath he didn’t even know he’d been holding as he swooped in for another pressing kiss. Keeping Phil close, Clint pulled back just far enough to utter, “God, I love you, Phil…” before moving in again.

They were both where they belonged, and they had a _lot_ of making up to do.

 

 


	19. Chapter 19

 

* * *

 

Captain Steven G. Rogers survived the war against all odds. Having flown fifteen missions with the 187th, his mission count started from zero when he was assigned his new group. He went on to fly twenty-seven more missions out of England before the war was over. Altogether, he had flown a nearly unheard-of forty-two successful missions, despite having had to put his plane into the water a couple of times. He received a number of group commendations, as well as the Purple Heart for completing a mission while injured, and bringing the bomber back to the airfield with all ten men on board still in one piece.

He and his crew were lucky enough to receive the honor of flying their bomber over London on V-E Day, and he returned to Brooklyn, New York, in June of 1945. Where he lived for the remainder of his life beside his best friend, co-pilot, and partner, James “Bucky” Barnes.

* * *

 

First Lieutenant Grant Ward was wounded during a bombing on his new base shortly after being reassigned. He was given an Honorable Discharge and sent home to Massachusetts in January of 1944. He became a high school English and History teacher so that he could ensure he had time to take care of his best friend, Leopold Fitz.

Though never the same after the explosion of their base, Leo Fitz was able to live out a comfortable life in Ward’s family home, where he was well-loved and taken care of in the best way possible. He was able to eventually complete his degree in engineering and would later go on to design parks and roadways.

* * *

 

First Lieutenant Bruce Banner was assigned to a fighter group in southern Italy. While flying a mission over Austria, he was shot down and taken prisoner, waiting out the rest of the war at Stalag Luft VIII-B. As one of the officers, Bruce was part of numerous escape attempts, and while a small handful of prisoners escaped to safety, Bruce did not.

In January of 1945, the POWs were ordered to grab only what they could carry and begin marching out of camp, in what later became known as a Death March, due to Soviet armies advancing on Germany. Many of the men did not survive the harsh German winter, while others were unlucky enough to be liberated by the Soviets, only to be kept from their homes for several more months. Bruce, thankfully, was liberated by an American infantry group. He was repatriated and returned home to the United States in the summer of 1945, where Tony was waiting for him.

* * *

 

Second Lieutenant Anthony “Tony” Stark (aka Carbonell) served out the rest of the war as chief mechanic to a fighter group in France. He continued out his service under his mother’s maiden name and was able to go unnoticed until the end of the war when he received a commendation for bravery and quick thinking under fire for taking to the anti-aircraft guns during a bombing raid in the fall of 1944. Though he was never able to visit Bruce during leaves, the two kept in touch in letters, even for a short time after Bruce was taken prisoner.

Tony was Honorably Discharged and returned to the States in December of 1944. He went on to develop his own branch for his father’s Stark Industries and focused on developing new aircrafts and aeronautic designs. He met Bruce’s ship when it came into the New York City harbor in 1945, and the pair spent much of their remaining days working side by side to ensure that future aircrafts were reliable and safe.

Tony remained close friends with Clint Barton, and would frequently make trips to Iowa with Bruce to spend a few weeks in the summer relaxing in the quiet countryside.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story has been an extreme labor of love. The original idea for it had started off as just that, an original fiction idea I had waaaaay back in 2005 as a senior in high school. Essentially, you could say, this fic has taken me ten years to write. In February of 2014, I adapted the idea for fanfiction and started to combine some of my favorite shows and movies revolving around the military, particularly WWII (but not exclusively): M*A*S*H, Baa Baa Black Sheep/Black Sheep Squadron, Hogan's Heroes, 12 O'Clock High, Red Tails, Always, A Guy Called Joe. Taking bits and pieces from various places, and with the Pearl Harbor soundtrack on repeat, I began working on it, only to seemingly abandon it for a little over a year two chapters in. When I decided to take on the MBB for the very first time, I considered it a good chance to finish the fic, figuring it'd come in maybe just barely at the 10k minimum. Then, when I realized it was going to be more than that, I upped my goal to full-length novel 50k. Then 75k. When all was said and done, this fic has far surpassed my wildest expectations and come in at 101k+
> 
> And it really could not have been possible without all the love and support of my wonderful friends on Tumblr: [Ralkana](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Ralkana/pseuds/Ralkana), kishikeahi, embraceyourfandom, [Westgate](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Harkpad/pseuds/Westgate), [raiining](http://archiveofourown.org/users/raiining/pseuds/raiining), and so many others that I can't begin to name, and the followers who didn't jump ship even while I was nightblogging randomness and flailing about bits I'd just written. Also couldn't have been possible without my partner-in-crime [roguebowtie](http://archiveofourown.org/users/roguebowtie/pseuds/roguebowtie), who received so many messages at all hours of the night (and quite a few at six, seven, eight in the morning of me going, "I haven't been to bed yet. Read this for me??"), begging for input and ideas and opinions on how something was written, and who had to suffer through the great RP Drought while all my RP muses went into hiding so that I could focus solely on this fic and came through it not hating me, so that's a plus! 
> 
> Thank you so much to everyone who had a hand in helping make this fic possible!

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [ART - On a Wing and a Prayer](https://archiveofourown.org/works/5107097) by [Max72](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Max72/pseuds/Max72)




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